Chapter 1: I.
Chapter Text
“They've promised that dreams can come true - but forgot to mention that nightmares are dreams, too.”
Oscar Wilde
***
Louis presses closer to the brick wall. His clothes are already soaked by the rain falling far too often this time of year, not that he cares, but it wets his papers, drives people off the filthy streets, makes them unfriendly and quick-paced. He hasn't sold many of them today and if he doesn't make double the next day, then he needs to come up with something to scrape together this week's rent. He doesn't know how the others are doing, but he doesn't think that the weather is any different near Waterloo Station.
Louis sneezes and flips up the collar of his shirt, tugs his cap deeper into his face and adopts a casual stance at the corner of the street. It's never very busy near Hyde Park at this time of day and all the rich snobs with their top hats and walking sticks; they're probably at some gentlemen's club drinking Bourbon and Whisky. Sometimes Louis envies them. Most of the time though, he hates their guts.
He should be better off selling papers near Westminster, Louis guesses, and decides to go there tomorrow instead.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, as Dickens put it, and Louis guesses that no description has ever been more accurate. Best for a miniscule group of blessed few – worst for the damned rest of them.
Tsar Alexander II has just been assassinated in St. Petersburg. The old continent is ever changing with uprisings and socialist movements and every day it feels like countries are going to fall and rise again from the ashes. The new world across the Atlantic seems like a solid beacon of light on the forefront of freedom and possibilities. Electricity is in the coming since Thomas Edison has invented the light bulb; not that anyone of the common folk has actually ever seen one.
France has called out the Third Republic and it remains to be seen how long it is going to last this time around, their democracy, a hundred years after the Revolution that lit up a spark in every suppressed soul, is still young and fragile. The German Empire is split in half and controlled by Prussia and the Austrian-Hungarian Crown appears to be the strongest force on the mainland – of course only until one takes a closer look.
Cracks are beginning to show on every surface, no matter how solid.
The British Empire is a smoking, steaming body and England is its corrupted heart. Filthy gutters border every street upon which prostitutes and criminals have become the star-crossed lovers Shakespeare once wrote of, forever condemned to remain in the chains that tie them to their pitiful lives; free and yet unfree to change a single fuck about the shithole that is London. It is a place where dog eats dog.
The year is 1881 and if you’re alone in this world you might as well be dead, because starving dogs have no mercy.
Louis walks through Whitechapel when the sun is nothing but a hint on the horizon, obscured by the fumes rising from the factories on the outskirts of the city. He still has some time on his hands and takes a short detour from the path he usually takes towards the bank of the Thames, appreciating the cold and the strong smell of ink from the freshly printed papers under his arm lessening the vile fumes lingering in the streets from a long and greedy night.
He follows Brady Street past the Jewish cemetery and takes a right on Whitechapel Road, rounds the Royal Hospital to head south. There are a few brothels down New Road and Louis takes care to dodge them. He doubts that they are still heavily frequented at this time of morning, yet there is always a half-conscious drunkard stumbling out of their front doors and Louis doesn’t fancy getting pushed into a wall face first by some stranger who gets turned on by rejection and deems it appropriate to fuck him and then toss a handful of coins in his direction. So Louis keeps his head down, his pace fast and steady and his lips firmly shut although he very much feels like humming something he’d picked up waiting outside St. Paul’s.
He continues on his way, towards the Tower and then past it and along the riverbank, already regretting that he left the remainders of his pay with Zayn, in case he needed something, in case he got hungry. His empty stomach is gnawing on his insides. He’d had a cup of hot water for dinner and breakfast and before he sells a couple of papers, he won’t be able to buy anything. It’s why he’s on his feet so early, because he hadn’t been able to stay another minute in the tiny, cramped room he and his best friend share with three other guys his age; a room that is so cold still, winter refusing to loosen its grasp on the city, that Louis hadn’t closed his eyes all night. They all work from sunrise to nightfall, but there is never anything left to buy wood or coal.
It takes him just under an hour to get to the Houses of Parliament, overshadowed by Westminster Abbey, his fingers and toes already slightly numb. Yawning, shrugging the last fragments sleep off his shoulders, he takes position on the corner of Parliament Square and St. Margaret Street. It will be quiet for another hour or so, Louis assumes. He tugs his cap into place, shifts the papers in his arms, and starts reading the first page.
By the time the first people with neckties and top hats appear on the streets – people with the money to buy and the time to read newspapers – Louis is almost done. He’s always been a fast reader, always been good at it, always liked it and he wishes he could read anything but these bloody papers; but perhaps he shouldn’t be complaining, at least they sell at all.
Louis straightens his stance and jacket and steps forward onto the sidewalk and for the following hours, he rattles down memorised headlines, waves his arms like a lunatic and forces small talk to attract customers when all he wants to do is spit in their faces.
A high-pitched whistle reaches his ears when it’s far past noon. It’s raining again and he is soaked, and Louis is trying his best to shield off his papers, because nobody is going to buy them when they’re soaked. He turns his head and sees Zayn heading his way, with a patterned scarf around his neck that looks like he found it in the trash – and he most likely did. But its colours are still radiant and bright, welcoming drops of scarlet and emerald green that are refreshing to his eyes. Zayn gives his arm a playful knock and Louis is glad for the distraction.
“Going alright today?”
Louis shrugs. “I can’t complain. Westminster is usually fine and it is today. Where are the others?” He hands Zayn one of the papers and watches his friend flick through the pages, looking at the pictures and trying to grasp the content of it before giving up and handing it back.
“Stan said something about Waterloo, I think Aiden went with him. Ed’s up in Paddington. I’ve been around Oxford Street all morning.”
“Was it quiet?”
“Bloody awful,” Zayn says. “I tried Savile Row too, thought there might be some gents with a few spare pounds, but the owners chased me away like some hooker. We’re not hookers. We just sell stuff.”
“We would probably earn more if we’d sell our bodies instead,” Louis comments and earns a laugh.
“I hear there are some queers over in Mayfair,” Zayn drawls. “Some posh puffs with powdered faces. I’m sure they’d like you.”
“Why?”
“You’re smart.”
Louis furrows his brows at him. “I’m not smart,” he replies. “I have common sense. Which is what they are lacking, so I think I must decline.”
Zayn sighs. “Shame. You’d look great in a dress,” and then he rounds the corner with a wink and disappears to whatever crowded street he’s picked for himself. Louis rolls his eyes and tries not to worry about Zayn’s words, about where his friend is going to go and what he’s going to do; he’s always had long fingers and someday he might just reach into the wrong pocket.
And then he thinks about Mayfair, about the implications that linger in the air, heavy and yet vaporous, like cheap perfume exported from Paris and beyond. About the temptation of it all and how easy it could be – but would it be easy? Louis isn’t sure. He already finds himself squirming inwardly if gazes linger on his body for too long, when he can tell, so easily tell, what they’re thinking when they look at him; when he knows what they think of him.
If they see him at all. Most of the time, they look right through him and see nothing and nobody at all, and Louis honestly prefers it this way.
He returns to the cold and dark room he has started to call his home when it’s far past midnight, with a busted lip and a bruised shoulder and the bitter taste of blood on his tongue, because he got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught in a violent brawl between a handful of whoremongers and their lackeys. Limbs strained and sore, he settles on the floor beneath holey, moth-eaten blankets and tries to distract his mind from the fact that he only has a few hours before the entire ordeal will start anew. Zayn giving him a tired smile only lessens so much of the weight Louis feels crushing his bones.
The days stretch on, grey and dull and never changing like the Thames. Louis keeps his position in Westminster because it’s lucrative, at least in comparison to anywhere else in the city at this time of year. He makes a little more on Mondays and Thursday, hardly anything on Wednesdays or the weekend, but he gets by – they do – for now, and that’s all he is really ever asking for.
The first time he sees him is a Tuesday.
It’s almost time for Louis to go, or so he would like to think. He’s sold enough for the day, it’s dry but cold and a cough has been straining his lungs all afternoon. It is nothing unusual; the air is almost as dirty as the streets he walks on, poisoned with factory fumes and smoke. Yet it remains uncomfortable and he fears that it might develop into something more than a simple cold if he doesn’t find shelter from the icy wind that’s starting to blow around the corners.
A few carriages roll over the pebbles, coachmen sitting high up in top hats and swinging whips at their horses, urging them on so that the gentlemen sitting in the cubicles arrive at their clubs in time for supper and entertainment. It becomes a dull, steady noise in the background, married with hurried footsteps and walking sticks colliding with the pavement and Louis tries to keep out of everyone’s way as the Houses of Westminster slowly empty after a long day of politics. Some of the passers-by have cigars tucked between their thin lips, blow smoke into Louis’ face and he flips up his collar to muffle his cough, does not fancy offending any of them, it’s not his intention either.
In between turning and keeping out of the way, he isn’t mindful enough of where he is stepping and suddenly, his back collides with something, or rather someone – and Louis’ blood freezes. He has bumped into Member of Parliament before, a Lord even, and he’d had more trouble at his neck than he likes to admit to anyone. Louis flinches out of the way, ducks his head and curves his spine, keeps his head low, always low, and utters as many apologies as he can think of to ensure that this incident doesn’t have any consequences for him. Yet there is no yelling as answer, no walking stick colliding with his body to forcefully remove him from anyone’s path.
“Anything interesting?”
His head shoots up so quickly that he can feel his neck crack and he has to do a double take, blink, before he can clearly see the young man – young Sir – standing right in front of him, not in the usual distance that all the others keep because, who knows, Louis might have a disease. Skin so pale it’s almost white, contrasting with an elegant dinner jacket and a crimson necktie; almost feminine features, brown curls, untamed. It takes Louis another moment to realise what he means and glances down at the papers in his arms, then up again, and swallows, regaining some calmness.
“That depends on what you would consider interesting, Sir,” he says fluidly, politely, to get his head out of any possible rope forming around his neck. “Another assassination attempt on the newly crowned Tsar has made the front page,” and he holds it up for the gentleman to see.
The Sir, possibly Lord, furrows his brows. “Isn’t there always an attempt?” he says and it sounds like he might be saying it just to himself.
Louis shrugs. “There is more on the Austrian-Hungarian conflict on page three, and apparently the truth about the liberal movement in Eastern Europe.”
A fine eyebrow rises upwards. “The truth?”
“Or so they claim,” Louis replies, rolls the paper and holds it out for taking, trying to stay calm, trying to ignore the flutter in his chest and the sudden tightness in his lungs that is surely only stemming from the cough he’s having, or so he tells himself. “Five pennies and you can find out for yourself, Sir,” he adds, because he is not going to forget that he still has a job to do, even with some unexpected – chit-chat.
Warm fingers press a couple of coins into his palm and when Louis regains control over his numbed senses, the young gentleman is already getting into a curricle and disappearing from his sight.
Later that night, Zayn arrives back at their room with an entire bottle of Irish whisky.
“Where did you get that?” Stan is the first to ask sceptically, scooping up his remaining puddle of watery soup with a piece of dried bread that is too floury to be of any proper taste.
“You know the Opium dens in the East End?” Zayn starts and sits down, unscrewing the cap. “Someone died there today while I was doing my rounds,” and by that he means while he was digging through pockets of people too high to even notice. “He passed out and didn’t wake up again. So I took it.”
“You took a dead man’s whisky?”
Zayn shrugs at them. “Would’ve been a shame to let it go to waste,” and then he takes a respectable swig, flinches, pulls a face, hands it around.
Later, Louis is happy to blame his rather vivid dream about handsome and noble strangers on his slightly intoxicated state.
He sees him the next day, towards late afternoon, leaving the Houses of Parliament with another gentleman by his side, slightly shorter and with neatly combed hair. Yet Louis’ eyes only linger on him for a second before he soaks up his – well, the other’s appearance; a black coat draped over his shoulders, underneath a perfectly tailored suit, a pin-striped waistcoat, a neatly and intricately bound necktie rising to just under his chin. His profile is sharp, his expression serious as he talks to his companion, walking half a step ahead, indicating that despite appearing to be younger, he is half a step higher on the social ladder; not just an average Member of Parliament then, perhaps not a Member at all, simply important enough to frequent the same halls.
Louis is so lost in thought that when suddenly, bright eyes come up to meet his, he snaps his head to the opposite direction so quickly he can feel his spine crack. Caught out, he feels his heart thump desperately against his ribs, so startled that he almost drops the papers tucked under his arm. Only after taking a couple of deep breaths does he dare to look up again, gaze across the street only to find a pair of green eyes still attached to his form as their owner follows his friend or colleague into the carriage.
He realises that there is something wrong when he starts looking for him on Wednesday, stretching his neck to distinguish him in between the crowd of people entering and exiting Parliament. Louis doesn’t see him all day, and he doesn’t see him on Thursday either, and business is going slower again, yet he refuses, without acknowledging the true reason, to leave Westminster and try his luck some place else. Wondering distractedly if it’d do any good to pick up a second job on night-shift, perhaps help out in a factory on the south bank, Louis pokes his tattered shoes against the peeling paint of a lamppost, black with gold rims, the Westminster crest on shoulder height, when out of the blue, his neck starts to prickle like –
As if there were someone watching him. He stills, drops his foot to the ground and turns. It’s already dark, some time past seven, Louis assumes, fighting the creeping chill as he pulls his jacket tighter around his body. Only half of the lampposts are lit and even the tiniest shape draws an obscured shadow in the flickering orange lights. A handful of carriages are standing on the side of the road across Westminster Abbey, horses impatiently pawing their hoofs, their owners’ breaths coming out in white clouds from where they’re perched on the roof. All of them are looking ahead.
Louis shuffles back until his back hits the wall, digs his numb fingers into his pockets and glances around the area once more. A few windows are illuminated, but there are no people on the streets and –
“Evening.”
“Jesus Christ, what –” He jumps and his heart is in his throat once more, threatening to break through skin and ligaments. It’s his – it’s him, looking as impeccable as always and Louis’ mind is racing so much that he only realises after a few moments that he has been leaning right next to a door, now open, which is why the young gentleman could appear out of thin air. Louis swallows thickly and tries to calm his pulse, to no avail.
“Apologies, once again,” he smiles, adjusting the coat he is wearing. The fabric rustles, it looks heavy and expensive. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Excuse me, Sir, my – mind was elsewhere,” and he clears his throat, straightens his collar. “Found the truth, Sir? Or do we have to keep looking?”
“I’m afraid so,” he replies and Louis only registers belatedly that they are standing far too close. “Another assassination?”
He grabs a paper and hands it over for him to unfold. “No assassination, Sir. But a handful of conspiracy theories I found quite entertaining. There is nothing like a socialist rising in the east to unsettle the monarchs.” Louis resists the urge to bite his tongue, because he might very easily be risking his neck with careless talk.
“Marxists?”
Louis shrugs. “Aren’t they all?”
“Perhaps,” the gentleman answers, eyes skimming over the headlines. “Are you familiar with his theories?” And that is an odd question to ask, considering their positions, considering appearances, and Louis will be damned if he is going to be careless.
“Perhaps,” he echoes, keeping his expression as blank as possible, not squirming away when assessing eyes meet his own gaze although he very much wants to. People have been imprisoned for saying the wrong things, for believing in the wrong ideals and Louis is not going to be like his – he is not going to let that happen to him.
Something flickers across the other’s expression, as delicate as the rare, early signs of spring spreading across the city. He wonders if he understands why Louis can’t and won’t tell, but then he quickly discards that thought, realising that although some might try, those privileged few will never be able to grasp even a spectrum of the common folk’s worries and fears. Louis guesses that most of them are born with a sense of caution, whereas others never have to worry for a single second in their entire lifetime. It seems highly unfair, but then again, it would surprise him if anything in life turned out to be fair at all.
“Excuse me, Sir,” he says again, takes a few steps back, hoping that the dim lights hide his reddening cheeks, and he doesn’t even know why he is suddenly flushing, feeling too hot (except that he does), but Louis knows that he has to get away right now, unless he wants to do something headless and stupid. “I have to get going,” and he waves the remaining papers before once again tugging them securely under his arm. “I still need to sell these tonight. Have a pleasant evening, Sir.”
He turns around and stumbles, hurries along the pavement until he finds a dark and narrow mew leading off the main road. Louis cuts the corner, sharply, and promptly presses his back to the wet and icy wall, listens to his heartbeat thundering ahead like a marching band, obscenely loud in the surrounding silence. Closing his eyes, he fills his lungs with cold air, concentrates on the dampness seeping through his clothes and tries not to think about what the hell is happening.
“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Zayn tells him later that night when Louis sinks to the floor, utterly drained and exhausted.
“I think he might be one,” he utters his reply as he drifts off, glad that nobody presses further.
Naturally, in accord with the usual course of Louis’ life, everything goes downhill rather quickly from there, like he is attracting bad luck and negativity. He doesn’t oversleep on Friday, but there is some commotion on the street that tells of trouble and soon, entire pathways in Whitechapel are closed off. Louis does not want to know any of the reasons behind it, so he stays away, takes a rather long detour and thus misses the first wave of arriving parliamentarians when he gets to Westminster. Just before noon, it starts to chuck it down in bucketfuls. He does his best to shield off his papers, but half of them have practically started to disintegrate by late afternoon, making most of his daily income disappear into thin air like the vapours rising steadily from the gutter.
Louis feels cold and miserable, feels the dangerous shortening of his temper that might get him into trouble if he doesn’t pay attention to what he is doing or saying. He fears he might also be getting snappy as the day goes on, and that is never good for his side of business. People whose clothes on their backs are worth more than Louis is going to earn all year start to bicker about the price, about the difference of a single penny that makes no difference to them at all, just because they like to be spiteful, because they like to put him in his place and remind him who is in charge. He has to sell, even for less, because even little money is more than none at all and although he knows that he will regret it by the end of the day, Louis has no choice but to give in. It makes his stomach turn unpleasantly in his belly; it makes him feel ill.
Dawn breaks with radiant scarlet drenching the sky, colour almost too vivid against the black backdrop of the city, factory chimneys rising darkly at the horizon in the distance, when Louis decides to give up for now. He is under no illusion that the following day – or any of the ones following that – is going to be any better, but he has learnt to neither push his luck nor his own patience. It hasn’t stopped raining since morning; the streets are deserted because other people have somewhere they’d rather be than in this wretched weather. Louis wrings out his cap and tugs it back on his head, keeps his eyes on his feet as he rounds the corner at Tothill Street for Storey’s Gate. He has the route already planned out in his head, up north past St. James’s Park and turning east after Trafalgar Square. It’s a long and tedious walk and it gets worse the further it is into the night.
But Louis doesn’t even get past the corner. He collides with something solid that sends him to the ground, his back hitting the cobbled street with so much force that it knocks all air out of his lungs. The papers he’s had bundled under his arm go flying and he can do nothing but wince as they get swallowed up by puddles, drenched and probably disintegrating as the seconds beat on. There goes his chance of earning a few, necessary extra pennies; some coal for heating, a loaf of bread that isn’t stone-hard and dry, and a tight fist clenches around his chest, adding to the pressure that his fall has caused, because it’s just not fair.
Louis sees movement out of the corner of his eyes and feels anger bubbling up inside him, anger and endless frustration, because he is so fucking done being pushed around like some worthless piece of –
A hand is outstretched towards him and a rushed inquiry of “are you all right?” reaches his ears, but Louis ignores the sparked familiarity and bats it away, scrambling to his feet without much grace, without much care because he is nothing but a dirty street rat to whomever he’s run into. His clothes are soaked and he is shivering and cold and so, so tired.
“No, I’m bloody not,” Louis yells, apparently all senses lost, pulling his clothes back into place. There is a tear at the elbow of his jacket and his palms burn and throb from trying to buffer his fall. His vision is still slightly off and he thinks he might have hit his head as well, outlines still blurry and the buildings casting long shadows across the street aren’t aiding. “You think you own the damn streets and can stomp on everyone who gets in your way, you pompous arse, then you got another thing –”
It’s then that things come back into focus in front of Louis’ eyes and he snaps his mouth shut so quickly that his teeth hurt. It’s dark, but he recognises the face, the curls and he realises he’d recognised his deep voice as well. He can’t stop himself from going rigid, and his heart beats so hard it hums in his throat.
“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.” His brows are furrowed and he looks – concerned, perhaps? Louis isn’t sure. “Are you hurt?”
Louis thinks he is, actually. His entire body feels like a bare, raw nerve and there sure will be bruises on his back come morning, a nasty bump on the back of his head. He feels pain, and he feels so heavy and his tongue does too, all of a sudden and he already regrets snapping just seconds earlier, all common sense forgotten.
He is close, is the problem, and Louis can see droplets of rain on his heavy, black overcoat that is most likely worth more than Louis will ever earn in his lifetime. A gloved hand reaches out as if to lay on his shoulder in a comforting gesture, but Louis flinches back on instinct, curses himself inwardly for acting like a spooked animal. Shivering, wet cotton clinging to his icy skin, Louis takes a slow step back.
“I am really, terribly sorry,” the young gentleman repeats and he sounds so sincere Louis feels almost inclined to believe him. “I –” and his gaze quickly flickers to the dirty, deformed papers on the street, “I will compensate for these, I promise. I don’t have anything on me now.” He throws a quick glance over his shoulder. “But my carriage is just around the corner, and I don’t live far away. I’ll pay for these, and we can get you dry clothes? You’ll catch pneumonia in this weather.”
He stumbles over his words slightly, like he is the one who is flustered and nervous while Louis still wonders if somebody is going to come up to him to beat him with a walking stick. But he can’t move, he is absolutely frozen to this wet and dirty spot in the middle of Westminster, facing a member of the upper class who could have him beaten to death without getting into the slightest bit of trouble if he only paid off the right people; and by the look of him, he could probably pay off the entire British Parliament.
“I’m fine,” Louis somehow manages to croak out, mostly reassuring himself. “I don’t need –”
“I insist,” he is immediately interrupted. “Please. It would ease my conscience.”
Louis doesn’t nod, but he doesn’t flinch and perhaps that is enough of a confirmation, because suddenly there is a hand gently pressing against the small of his back, making two layers of clothing stick to his skin and he’s moving without actually commanding his body to do so. He has no idea what he is doing and he feels paradoxically terrified and calm all the same and it is making him dizzy and the gentleman’s profile is sharp even against the dark and smudged backdrop of this rotten city.
Louis drops his eyes to his feet and tries to remember how to breathe.
There is tension in the air and Louis can’t properly place or define it. It is not what he would have imagined; it is not what he is accustomed to when in presence of someone so clearly and significantly higher on the social ladder. The young gentleman offered, forthcoming and friendly, no different from the brief words they had exchanged in the past week, futile in comparison to the situation Louis finds himself in now. He is still wet, soaked to the bone and dripping filthy water onto the no doubt inestimable leather seats and cushions of the curricle. Louis folds his hands in his lap, tightly, kneads his fingers and supresses a thick swallow, glances to the side and finds his eyes fixed upon the gentleman’s profile.
He is pale, Louis thinks. Pale and beautiful, radiating an air of authority unusual for his young age and only explainable with an innate confidence that goes hand in hand with privileged birth and a distinguished upbringing. He has a look of importance, but he is not distant like all the others and perhaps it is just his wishful imagination, but he hadn’t looked upon Louis with pity or even disgust.
He just seems honest; genuinely sorry for ruining Louis’ only way to make a living and willing to compensate. But maybe Louis is blinded and it’s not just wishful imagination but also wishful thinking that the Sir is just going to pay for drenched newspapers and dry his clothes.
Louis feels his throat tighten and perhaps he does know how to define the tension lingering in the cabin between them as the horses’ hoofs clatter against pebbles in a steady rhythm. He can’t tell what time it is, he doesn’t know if it’s dark already, velvet curtains shielding off the windows and when the coach suddenly comes to a halt, his heart leaps up so erratically that Louis fears it will leave his body. He flinches when the door is yanked open and he looks upon an old, wrinkly face, framed by silvery hair and a dark top hat. Milky eyes scan him from head to toe, coming to no conclusion visible to Louis, but the old man does step aside and Louis’ legs almost give way as he ungracefully scrambles out of the curricle.
He straightens his cold and ever-trembling frame and looks around, the dark concealing most but a row of trees and a square lined with stately homes, painted white, with high windows and many tiers. The street he is standing on is free of dirt and people and anything that would obscure this perfect picture and Louis takes a few moments to realise that this is somewhere in Knightsbridge, which is –
He turns around in time to see the young gentleman climb out of his carriage with much more grace, and the old man leans in and whispers to him, undoubtedly his concern on bringing a street rat like Louis with him and Lord knows how this appears to on-lookers. The gentleman answers quietly, voice not above a hushed murmur so that Louis can’t pick out a single syllable and he – he is utterly overwhelmed and shivering to his core at this moment and suddenly, this all seems like a bad idea and all his senses are screaming at him to run as fast as his legs will allow.
But Louis stays without really knowing why, completely enchanted by the quiet and peaceful atmosphere laying over the square like a comforting blanket. The old man hurries past him and then he feels a warm hand pressing firmly against the small of his back, gently urging him along, making heat concentrate where fingers are resting right along his spine.
“Come on,” he says in a calm tone, barely audible and rather slowly. “It’s just over there,” and he nods towards one of the houses with marble stairs leading to a heavy mahogany door with golden letters; it’s number seventeen.
They move past the black iron fence and up the stairs and the door opens just as Louis is thinking of reaching out to knock, which sounds silly now that he really considers it. He doesn’t want to gape at the inside of the hallway, but Louis cannot help it. There are one, two, three maids lining up beside the door and dark, ornamented wallpaper crawling up to the white ceiling where chandeliers out of silver and crystal are dangling and shining down with – light. Not candles, but electric light, caught in small glass bulbs and Louis feels unable to move forward for a few seconds, staring at an invention he has only ever read of and never dared to dream of looking upon it with his own eyes. It makes perfect sense for electricity to be in found in the expensive mansions of Knightsbridge, but Louis never thought that he would find himself in one of them.
The hand is still warm and steady against his back and Louis averts his eyes slowly, expecting the other – five people present to stare at him like the scum that he most likely is to them, but the three maids and two butlers, one of them the old man from outside, keep their gazes lowered, not wanting to – intrude, perhaps, but on what? He finds his mind running away from him and is unable to follow, feeling disjointed and disconnected, as he is lead along the corridor and into what appears to be a sitting room, four times the size of the room Louis shares with five other people. Head obscurely empty, all senses concentrated on that single contact between them, he hears footsteps and assumes that the maids have followed them on their heels.
“Wait here,” and then a delicate hand wraps around his shoulder and leads him next door and there are bright blue tiles, shining and interspersed with silver and it’s warm, and steaming and there is a bronze tub and-
Louis snaps his mouth shut. He doesn’t think he has ever felt so much out of place in his life. He spins around again, blinking, but there is only a maid in a grey dress, white apron, with copper hair and a gentle smile and he wonders absentmindedly if he hit his head on stone and is dreaming this, is in fact still lying on a dirty street in Westminster, out like a light and speckled with mud.
“There are new clothes on the chair, Sir,” she says, accent heavy, words clipped. “Just put yours there after you’ve bathed and I will get them cleaned and dried.”
Louis wants to protest, wants to tell her that he is no Sir, that he just wants to leave at this point because this is nice, and it’s not anything he wants to like and expect; grow used to comforts that are out of his reach. But she is out of the room, door firmly shut, before he can muster up the courage to utter a single word. So Louis looks at the filled tub with a tight knot coming to crawl up his throat, because this is what his mother used to do; nowhere near as lavish but so comforting and now he can’t even remember the last time he had a proper bath, not a bucket of cold water, just clean enough.
He draws his sleeves over his wrists and tugs at them nervously, eyes hurrying around again. There is no chandelier on the ceiling, but some candle holders mounted to the walls, candles burning and flickering, throwing long shadows over the tiled floor and lulling him in. He steps forward and lets the tips of his fingers dip into the water, not just lukewarm, but hot and perfect considering that Louis has been feeling constantly cold and clammy for months with summer still far away and the sun barely peeking past heavy, grey clouds as of late. And Louis wants nothing more than to shed his clothes and let his entire body sink into the tub; a luxury that he will most likely not get the chance of experiencing again.
But this is a stranger’s house and Louis feels uncomfortable and nervous for reasons only partially known to him and so he just grabs one of the cloths neatly folded, quickly pulls of his jacket and shirt, and wipes the dirt off his face and neck, arms and chest, wrings out his things and puts them back on, although a brief touch to the clothes laid out for him tells him they’d be far more comfortable than the scratchy, wet fabric he has stuck to his body. But they’re his and without them, he’d surely feel even more exposed than he does already.
Louis takes a few more breaths before he runs a hand through his damp hair, turns on his heels and stalks back to the door leading into presumably only one of many sitting rooms that are undoubtedly located in this mansion. The old butler is there again, minus top hat, but still impeccably dressed, expression firm and serious, wearing white gloves that make him look like a coroner. He bows his head slightly and it is painfully bizarre for Louis to be on the receiving end of this gesture, instead of curling his own spine. The gloved hand points towards the corridor and then the old man steps out into it, Louis only being able to follow after a moment’s hesitation. Rounding a corner, Louis’ at the bottom of a grand staircase leading up to the first floor, portraits adorning the walls and he passes ancestor after ancestor on his way up, cold and judgmental eyes despite only being painted on canvas.
He loses track of the number of stairs he leaves behind or the corners he turns and Louis’ mind is entirely elsewhere when all of a sudden, he’s in a room, and the door shuts behind him, and the young gentleman is sitting at a sturdy desk, face illuminated by a single candle. He has shrugged off his coat and jacket, but the well-tailored shirt is still entirely buttoned up, necktie still in place, spotlessly white, and Louis is frozen to the spot when he looks up and their gazes lock.
Something happens; something Louis can’t name or understand and he won’t be able to for a while (but that is a lie, he realises it right then and there, but Louis is good at denying things, at claiming that things aren’t real). It’s a stutter in his chest that shortens his breath and a faint tickle in his fingertips; spreading heat so rapidly that Louis fears he might be blushing.
“You didn’t take the clothes.”
Louis swallows, shifting from one foot to the other, not liking how small he feels still. “It’s very kind of you, Sir – Milord? But I –”
“Just Harry,” Louis is interrupted almost instantly and the other rises to his feet. “There is no need for formalities. And, if I may, I would also like to address you with your first name.”
Harry, he repeats in his mind, more than once and perhaps he deems formalities unnecessary, but they also mean distance and right now, Louis thinks some distance would be of use, would be helpful, because there is something spiralling out of control already and Louis fears that if he had a choice, he wouldn’t want it to stop spinning.
“It – it’s Louis. Just Louis.”
“Well,” Harry –Harry – says. “I am pleased to finally make your proper acquaintance, Louis. It was strange talking to you and not knowing your name.”
“It’s not really worth knowing,” Louis says before he can stop himself, bites his tongue when he realises that the words have indeed slipped past his lips and finds Harry looking at him with slightly squinted eyes and a soft tilt to his head. “It was all,” he adds quickly, “very kind of you and I do apologise for declining, but I – I think I should go.”
“Please don’t apologise, it was entirely –”
“My fault,” Louis interrupts him and if this were anyone else, they would probably have his head for being so utterly rude and disrespectful; and perhaps he will have his head, it’s most likely too early to tell. “Entirely my fault, and I do apologise for causing trouble, but none of this is necessary and I – I wouldn’t know how to repay your kindness.”
“You caused no trouble at all. I am not asking for anything either, why would you think that?” Harry’s voice is kind, far too kind and as he takes a few steps towards him on the Persian carpet, Louis wants to move closer and farther away.
He swallows. “Others have.”
The stretching silence that follows is telling of the understanding on Harry’s side and Louis keeps his eyes firmly cast downwards, slightly embarrassed about admitting something that is common knowledge on the streets, that happens every day, that is as much a solid part of his life as sunrise and sunset. It still makes him uncomfortable to even insinuate it, it still makes his skin crawl unpleasantly and he needs to steady his breath.
“I had no such thing in mind,” Harry tells him and his voice is nearer than Louis would have expected, making his gaze shoot up despite his mind telling him to keep his head lowered.
His eyes are so bright even in this darkened room – bright and open and honest. Louis thinks he still wants to run; but he doesn’t think he wants to run away anymore. And there is that tension again, the tension he’d felt earlier, so tangible that he could surely reach out and grab it much like he could reach out and smooth his fingers over that necktie, tug at the ends and make it come loose. He can’t tell where these thoughts are coming from all of a sudden, but they don’t go away, they stay and they start gnawing at his insides, right behind his forehead.
“I wouldn’t,” Harry continues and Louis can’t help but get drawn in by the movement of his lips, thin but shaped and viciously captivating. “I only intended to offer you compensation for tonight’s unfortunate accident. Although I –” A quiet but fast intake of air, almost hectic, and the tip of a tongue darting out, licking briefly and unconsciously at dried lips. “I must confess; I have found you stubbornly occupying my mind as of late.”
His throat runs dry, his fingers twitch; he holds his breath. It would be a lie if Louis claimed that he has not been thinking about the not-so-much stranger, almost every minute of every cold and dark hour that makes up his days; a bright thread he could hold onto in his mind. But this is surreal and painfully real at the same time and Louis has no idea what he is supposed to do, what he is allowed to do.
“And you’ve been on mine,” he says because there is no reason for him to hold it back.
Another moment of silence, not tense this time, but oddly cleared and relieved.
“Have I?”
Harry is so close that Louis can feel his breath on his face. He wonders if he could lean closer, if he could touch, if he could find out whether Harry tastes as sweet as he smells. But as much as his mind is already clouded by what cannot be described by anything but desire, it is also fear that shrouds it all; fear of the so evident and imminent danger this situation holds, however tempting it may be, because Louis is no fool. He would not have kept himself alive if he were a fool, if he did not know of the dangers of allowing and giving in to simple pleasure.
His gaze flickers between Harry’s eyes and his lips, urging him to make a decision Louis cannot; will not – perhaps because his mind is already made up.
A thumb traces the outline of his jaw, softly, trailing, a barely-there touch that sends a wave of heat up Louis’ spine nonetheless. He suppresses a shudder, a sudden intake of breath, a treacherous hitch in his throat, trying to keep his pulse even but to no avail. His heart is beating solidly against his ribs like a steam train’s engine, voice barely above a whisper.
“I should… I should go.”
The touch brushes past his pulse and lingers at his neck, just below his hairline, pressing down softly. “You’re free to go. If that is what you want. But I’d… welcome it, if you decided to stay.”
The fingers behind his ear are gentle and warm, yet no comparison to the eyes that look upon him and lock with his own; the hint of a smile, as faint as the sun trying to break through dense clouds.
Louis nods, almost imperceptibly, but Harry catches it with a brightening to his gaze, air coming out short. His fingers ghost over Louis’ skin.
“Could I,” Harry breathes and stops, unspoken question lingering between them.
Lips meet his hard enough to bruise. Yearning and desperate, teeth graze and pull and clash before they can reign in the suddenly arisen urgency and move together, mouths hot and open. Louis feels his knees growing weak, his skin growing too tight and only now does he truly realise that he has been fantasising about this – this kiss – ever since he first saw Harry. And he had just assumed that it would always remain nothing more than a mere fantasy – something pleasant to think about when all he felt was cold and anxious.
But Harry is so utterly real against him that it almost hurts, every single nerve in his body standing on edge and he desperately tries to hold on to something, tangles his fingers in Harry’s shirt and lets himself be pushed until the small of his back hits something solid with a thump. He gasps instinctively upon contact and Harry moves away ever so slightly, lips still parted, cheeks flushed, most likely a perfect mirror image of Louis and he wants nothing more than to pull him back in. Everything feels tight; his entire body is crawling with want.
Yet he takes a trembling breath and, as he holds Harry’s gaze, lifts his surprisingly steady hands to reach for his necktie. The fabric is soft, almost slippery, and probably Italian since everything is Italian these days. With more calmness than he would have accredited himself with, considering the previous minutes of this encounter, he starts to untie it and watches as folds of expensive cloth come loose around Harry’s neck. It drops to the floor without a sound, revealing a high collar and more buttons and Louis does not possess as much patience. He fumbles with the first button and then the second, but before he can reach the third, pale fingers encircle his wrists and Harry leans forward, catches his lips in a second lingering kiss that makes his bones melt.
Soon there are fingers tearing at his own buttons, soon his shirt is dangling open and he has half a mind to be self-conscious about how bony his chest has gotten over the cold months, about the many scratches and scars and bruises tainting his skin, but Harry runs a hand across his sternum, along his collarbone and Louis forgets all about it until he has laid the other’s skin bare and sees its perfection right in front of him when they part to catch a breath. Smooth and flawless like marble, solid but warm and soft to the touch when Louis places a trembling hand on Harry’s chest. A delicate shiver curses over the skin beneath his fingertips and a sharp intake of air, pulled in right between teeth pressed together tightly, resembling a hiss makes Louis awake from a trance he hasn’t been aware of falling into.
Palm still placed right above a fast beating heart, he watches as Harry moves his shoulders, as long and sinewy muscles honed by deliberate exercise and not physical labour work underneath his skin. A rustling sound reaches Louis’ ears as luxurious fabric hits the carpeted floor to his feet, but two fingers coming to rest beneath his chin prevent him from glancing downward.
Louis can’t meet his eyes, so he closes his own and waits – for what? He is uncertain; for Harry to stop, to continue, both would leave him with an aching chest, so what does it matter. He craves it and yet he already resents himself for wanting. But Louis does, he does want and he does not want to reach the point where he won’t be able to stop.
“Look at me,” and so Louis does, because a single touch seems to undo his every will and this is not how it’s ever been, not how it’s supposed to be, it is not – and Louis is almost gasping for air. “Christ.”
His lips are already bruised, but Louis welcomes another kiss, welcomes it with far too much ease and he thinks it scares him, going by the fluttering feeling in his chest, but he doesn’t twist his head away, opens his mouth willingly and arches into Harry’s hands sliding up his bare back underneath his still damp and filthy shirt. There is a quiet voice in the back of his mind and as movements grow more erratic and urgent, so does the strength of that voice until it’s almost ringing in Louis’ ears, yelling at him to move, to regain control of his sanity and legs and get away as long as he can.
Harry pulls back, presumably to breathe, and his lips are as red as the camellias outside St. Paul’s in the summer and he looks ethereal standing the flickering candlelight. Louis wants, he wants so much, but the underlying panic that’s been grappling at him all evening finally manages to fight its way to the surface and it’s as if something inside of him snaps.
He flinches back although he can’t convince his eyes to drop their focus from Harry, and he stumbles against a small desk, sends a pile of books tumbling to the carpeted ground. Harry’s brows pull together. He takes a step forward.
“I need to go,” Louis blurts out before he loses the strength to do so. “I’m so sorry,” he says in spite of not knowing what it is he is actually apologising for, “so, so sorry, but –” His hands fly up to pull at his shirt, still hanging open and he fiddles with the buttons, manages to jam a few into the holes with clammy, trembling fingers.
“Louis,” Harry starts, but as soon as his name has left Harry’s lips, Louis spins around on his heels.
He wrenches the door open and it slams against the wall, rattling the picture frames that line the corridor, but Louis doesn’t pause. His feet thunder down the stairs and he almost slips on the carpet with his wet, soggy shoes but he darts for the door like death is after him. Cold air slaps his face and it pulls him back to the ground, but Louis still keeps moving, like he suddenly can’t get away fast enough and perhaps is this lavish square with clean pavements and iron gates, perhaps it’s the giant mansion with the chandeliers and Persian rugs and servants or even Harry with his uninhibited kindness and captivating eyes and sinful –
Louis’ lungs burn when he comes to a halt. He has no idea where he’s ended up but it’s only a fraction of a second before he doubles over and spits bile onto the cobbled street. It burns in his throat and for once Louis is grateful that his stomach is empty. He puts his hands on his knees as he retches, heart beating frantically against his ribs, trying to get out like his body is suddenly too small for it, like it suddenly needs air to breathe.
A violent shiver curses through his body and Louis slowly straightens his spine to curl his hands around his arm, only then noticing that he’s left his coat behind, that he now has to face the on-going rain and cold air in nothing but his tattered and damp cotton shirt. In contrast to the icy feel of his skin, Louis’ lips are still hot when he touches fingertips to them, sore and swollen, Harry’s ghost still lingering as if he were present right in from of him. His knees start to buckle and he has to lean heavily against a rough stone wall, knocks his head against it a handful of times.
“What’s gotten into you?” he asks himself, voice drowned out by the drops hitting the pavement in rapid staccato. “What were you bloody thinking?” And Louis can’t answer either.
He shouldn’t have been so heedless to even get into a carriage with someone like Harry, regardless of his intentions. Louis should have run, had the chance to do so numerous times and he failed to take it and now he is standing somewhere near Hyde Park, he guesses, as the sky empties itself over his shivering, pitiful self, without any clue about how to get home, how to get through the week without the job he’s likely to lose, and how to forget that boy, that man, and how much Louis still wants to kiss him.
Louis sags against the wall, taking a trembling breath and places his hand over his mouth to muffle the pathetic sob that’s about to crawl up his throat. He sinks to the ground, hugs his knees to his chest and allows the rain to soak him through to the bones until he can pretend to be washed away into the gutter.
Louis spends the entire night wandering the eerily deserted streets. It doesn’t take him long to get his bearings once he reaches Green Park, but for some reason, he can’t bear the thought of facing the others in their cramped, muggy room. So Louis keeps walking, the image of Harry with his silk shirt by his feet in the dim light of his study stuck in his mind like it was painted onto it. From time to time, the back of his neck prickles, but whenever he turns around, he is alone.
The sun is just beginning to poke through the thick blanket of clouds covering the sky when Louis finds Zayn lurking around Charing Cross Station. He hadn’t expected it, but Louis feels a strong wave of relief when he spots the familiar face ducked away in a corner.
“Where the fuck have you been?” Zayn exclaims when he spots Louis walking towards him. He pulls him in by the shoulders and hugs him close and the tension that he was unable to shake off all night seeps out of his pores in an instant. “Was waiting up all night.”
“Sorry.” He drops his forehead against Zayn’s bony shoulder. “I felt like taking a walk.”
“All night?” Zayn puts a couple of inches between them, eyeing him intently, hands still firmly holding on to Louis. “In the bloody rain? Where’s your coat?”
“Lost it,” Louis says with a shrug. His mind is circling around the carriage ride to Belgravia, to the big house and the bronze tub and Harry tilting up his chin. It feels like a fever dream in daylight and Louis is almost glad that his coat his gone, seemingly the only evidence that it hasn’t been a figment of his own imagination.
“How? What the hell happened?”
He could lie, Louis guesses. But he’d rather not keep a secret from Zayn, seeing as he’s the only person Louis’ really got in this godforsaken city. It’s just that he’s so bloody tired. “I’d rather not talk about it,” he admits, once more sagging against his friend’s form in search of body heat. It’s really cold and his head is spinning. “At least not yet.”
“Course, Lou,” Zayn gives in easily, draping an arm around Louis’ shoulder and tugging him close. He smells like tobacco smoke and something Louis has come to associate as Opium. He wonders if Zayn’s made another trip to the underground dens in the East End. “But I’m going to take you home, all right? You don’t look so good.”
Louis wants to tell him that he doesn’t feel that good either, but his jaw is heavy and his tongue feels fuzzy and he doesn’t know how he and Zayn make it back to their room halfway across town in one piece, yet they do and Zayn pushes him down onto one of the makeshift beds and dumps all of their blankets on top of him.
He sleeps all day, slipping in and out of consciousness and thankfully without dreams and when he wakes up properly, Zayn is still sitting next to him, holding a bowl of sticky, flavourless porridge. Louis is starving, so he gulps it down until his stomach aches from the unfamiliar stretch and Zayn joins him beneath their pile of blankets once he settles back down.
Louis doesn’t keep the job selling papers (he’s lost some and he’s missed an entire day and his boss isn’t a man who can afford pity) and he doesn’t return to Westminster or Knightsbridge. Fortunately for them, Zayn “finds” a couple of pounds that they use to pay their rent and buy some food and Stan manages to get his hands on a new coat for Louis that’s even slightly warmer than the old one. After a week or so, Ed tells him that the cousin of a friend of his uncle twice removed (or something similar) is looking for help. He runs a chemist’s shop down Edgware Road and needs someone label and re-stock and carry boxes and Louis is the only one who can read and doesn’t need to be paid much.
Louis figures he’s really lucky with this one. The backroom of the little shop is dark and dusty, but it’s inside and it’s warm and Ben and his wife are nice and don’t treat him like the piece of garbage he is in everyone else’s eyes. What’s less fortunate is the time he suddenly has for his own thoughts once he’s shut away at the back with the only sound coming from creaking floorboards and hushed voices from the front of the chemist. He may not have to sell newspapers to unfriendly politicians anymore and he may not return to the Houses of Parliament altogether in the foreseeable future.
But that doesn’t mean he stops thinking about Harry.
***
to be continued.
Chapter 2: II.
Summary:
Colour rises in Louis’ cheeks, he’s sure of that and back are the vivid images, the hushed sounds and heavy breaths and he shouldn’t, but he still wants, too. For a second, Harry looks like he’s actually going to lean in and Louis’ heartbeat pulses in his throat. He takes a hasty step back. Harry draws his brows together.
“Not out here,” he mutters and Harry gets what he’s really saying. Somewhere else.
Notes:
WARNINGS for this chapter: - Mentioned/Referenced Minor Character Death (present and past)
- Mild LanguageDisclaimer: I do not own, nor do I know the people featured in this story. Their characterization is based on my personal perception of them and I do not claim that this is the truth. Please respect the Fourth Wall.
A/N: Again, thanks to Brit for beta'ing, any remaining mistakes that potentially snuck in are my own. Feel free to hit me with comments and/or questions both here and on my tumblr. See you next week!
Chapter Text
CHAPTER II.
“So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calm'd. See, here it is--
I hold it towards you.”
***
In the weeks that follow the weather grows worse; first rain, then sleet, then a choking mist that settles on the streets like a veil and refuses to lift. The air is thick with it, its fumes burning at the eyes and throat. Then as quickly as it came, the mist is gone, days turning as clean and clear as ice. No wind, just stillness, that freezing ache that comes before snow.
It happens towards the end of February. The entire city is holding its breath, waiting for winter to hit one more time before it’s released by spring. It’s late in the evening, already pitch black, lanterns glowing orange outside a small pub near Liverpool Street. Louis can’t feel his toes and he keeps rubbing his hands together for warming friction. They’re watching and waiting for Ed, who’s standing near the street corner playing his old violin, a tattered top hat in front of him, filled with a couple of coins. Most of the time, Ed just plays something he’s come up with himself for the lack of actual sheet music (Louis has no idea how he learned to play in the first place, but it’s also why he loves their little gang, they don’t talk much about the past), but at the moment, he’s fiddling through a piece by Bach, a requiem they’d found printed on loose sheets of paper when they’d moved into their room.
Louis likes the sound of it, even if it’s depressing as hell and he breathes onto his open palms to force some feeling back into his fingers when Zayn suddenly appears from seemingly out of nowhere to join him and Stan. He shuffles close until he’s pressed against Louis from shoulder to ankle and tilts his head forward.
“Wanna hear some news?”
“What kind of news?” Stan asks, not averting his eyes from where an important looking gent is throwing a few coins into Ed’s hat.
“They found a guy,” Zayn says, keeping his voice low, barely audible over the music. “I mean a dead one. Just around the corner from ours. Head bashed in and everything. There was blood everywhere.”
Louis turns to face Zayn so quickly that his neck cracks. He brings a hand to it, lightly pressing down and suppresses a wince. “What, just now? Do they know what happened?”
Zayn shrugs. “They just cleared away the body. Was some kid who worked down by the wharf. No clue why anyone would kill him. ‘s not like he had any money.”
“Maybe he had debts,” Stan throws in.
“Maybe he got in with the wrong crowd,” Louis says and a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold works its way up his rigid spine. “Near ours, you said?”
“Yeah.” Zayn’s eyes dart around like he’s actually expecting someone to eavesdrop. Louis doesn’t know, maybe this is a thing that people would be interested to hear and shit, they’re not even that far away. “Hanbury Street, by the brewery.”
“Fuck.” Stan looks slightly pale when Louis looks at him. “Did they get the,” and he pauses, awkwardly. “You know.”
“Doubt it.” And that’s all Zayn says on the matter.
They keep standing by the side of the pub, in a safe distance to any drunkards looking for a fight, and listen as Ed plays the last couple of songs. There are three children on the street in front of him, actually standing in the gutter with their small, bare feet, skin dirty and bruised, but their eyes are bright and their smiles wide and toothless. Ed lets them pluck on the strings for a bit and they shriek with excitement. Louis feels like throwing up.
When Louis wakes up on the first of March, the room is clanking with cold, teeth clattering the moment he sits up and the blanket falls off his chest. He stretches his arms and reaches for his coat, pulls it over before shuffling out and standing up, bones aching from the hard floor. Zayn shifts and immediately burrows into the warm space left by Louis’ body, not waking up, curling his body tighter. He’s been really tired lately, unusually so. Zayn’s always had trouble getting up in the morning, the main reason why he’d never joined Louis in Stan selling papers. Louis doesn’t know if he should worry. For now though, he doesn’t have the time to do so.
He makes his way out the room and down the narrow and lopsided staircase, past washing lines and people sleeping on old rags in the hallway. Once he’s outside, he realises why it was so bloody freezing in their room. The street is covered in a thin white blanket and there are a few snowflakes that fall onto his cheeks when he looks up towards the sky. For once, the air is sharp and fresh, almost cleansed from all the foul odours and stenches that usually float through the streets and alleys.
Louis thinks he used to like snow. It’s weirdly disconcerting that he looks at it now and feels next to nothing. It just makes his feet and hands and face colder and the ground slippery and Louis stops counting the times he almost falls onto his arse on the way to Marble Arch. Usually, it takes him between one hour and an hour and a half to get to Ben’s apothecary; today he needs two hours.
Most of his body is numb when he gets to the little chemist’s shop, entering through a backdoor because his shoes are dirty and he’s covered in white dust. Ben’s wife greets him with some hot tea and Louis almost sinks to his knees with relief.
The first half of the day passes slowly, the small oil lamp in the back doing not much to heat up the room as Louis sorts through boxes and packets with powder and dried herbs. Ben is busy up front so after noon, he asks Louis to deliver some packages to customers who can afford this level of service. Luckily, these customers are all residents of Central London, but Louis still spends about three hours trudging around Mayfair and Westminster. Servants open the door without exception, and even they look at him with disdain, accept the small parcels with outstretched arms like Louis is carrying the fucking plague.
He is relieved when there is only one parcel left to deliver, to a lady with three surnames who lives somewhere near Hyde Park. Louis knows the city well, he’s had to find his way around it for so many years now, but this area isn’t generally where his feet carry him. It’s too posh, too clean and quiet, separated from everything that is happening around it. Louis walks past Victoria Station and heads towards Sloane Square, but takes a right just before he reaches it, heading North past Cadogan Square Gardens.
He finds Lowndes Square easier than he had assumed. It looks – strangely familiar.
There is a small green area right in the middle of the square, lined by trees and now covered completely in snow that seems to absorb every single sound. Louis can barely hear his own steps as walks right across it, stretching his neck to glance around. Most of the houses are four stories high or even more, pillars in front of almost every door, black iron fences that look like they’re covered with icing sugar.
His feet are wet, his toes numb and he rounds the square in search for number eleven. An elderly woman answers the door, wearing a black dress with a high neck, a white apron. She has a surprisingly soft expression on her face and slips a small coin into Louis’ clammy hand when he gives her the parcel wrapped in thick, brown paper.
“Take care, sweetheart,” she tells him and swiftly closes the door behind her.
When Louis descends the stairs and turns right to head back to the shop, hopefully before sunset, it hits him like a slap to the face why this bloody square seems so familiar.
Someone is just leaving number seventeen, hurrying down the steps toward the awaiting carriage, door already held open by the coachman, dark curls pushed back from the handsome face tinted pink by the harsh, cold air. A dark cloak trails behind him.
Louis freezes. Knows he should turn around and walk away. He hesitates for a second, but apparently it doesn’t take longer than that. As if on instinct, Harry lets his gaze wander around the square, presumably because he is taking in the newly fallen snow that is now a good four inches deep. His eyes fall onto Louis, widen and he just – stops.
It’s as if invisible fingers were encircling Louis’ throat, squeezing all air out of him and it goes to his head, makes him momentarily dizzy. Louis wants to curse himself, still unable to move, because he is usually more self-preservative. He’s always found a way to get through, to survive and he knows standing here and waiting for something to happen isn’t the way to do that. But the thing is, Louis doesn’t know what to do and he doesn’t know much about what’s happening to him, or why he finds Harry so fascinating – why Harry is still looking at him.
(Louis does know. Perhaps that is the main reason why he’s struggling with himself. In ignorance lies bliss, and Louis might not be an academic, but fools don’t survive on the street, at least not for long, and reading people, assessing them and their intentions, is one thing Louis’ become good at. He’s seen Stan and Ed and Zayn fall head over heels for some pretty birds with rosy cheeks, how their eyes follow ladies walking down the streets and Louis knows how to turn the lenses back onto himself. But there’s observation, and then there’s admittance. Louis’ entire life is already one big disappointment. Being a damn sodomite doesn’t really make things any easier.)
“Louis?”
Harry’s voice pulls him away from his thoughts. There’s still time to turn around and run. Louis is quick, always has been. But what’s the point, he thinks. He knows full well that running away now won’t make him stop thinking about Harry and about what happened – what might have happened if Louis hadn’t run away then.
He walks towards him, slowly like he’s afraid he’s going to spook Louis with sudden movements, a tailored jacket underneath his coat. Leather gloves, shiny boots, a soft-looking scarf thrown loosely over his shoulders. The snow crunches beneath his feet.
“Did you come – what are you doing here?”
“I was just,” Louis manages before his tongue goes rigid and he stumbles over silent syllables. He takes a calming breath in through his nose. “Lady Milton ordered some Laudanum. I was just… dropping it off for her.” He refrains from pointing towards the old Lady’s door, but somehow the sheer thought of Harry assuming Louis was here to see him is absolutely mortifying in broad daylight.
“Oh.” Harry’s lips stay parted for a moment. He wets them before he continues and Louis feels like his nerves are raw and laying in the open. “I thought perhaps… You left your coat, so –”
“I know,” Louis interrupts quickly. “Got a new one.”
“I can see that.”
Louis drops his gaze at that and wonders what else Harry sees when he looks at him. The last time they’d run into each other, it’d been so dark Louis had barely been able to see his hand in front of his face. In the afternoon, things appear a tad more clearly. Louis can see the holes in his shoes that are about to fall apart, his patched-up trousers that are too short even on him, the shirt that’s lost half of its buttons and shows far too much of his bony chest and the moth-eaten coat. He sees his dirty hands and his matt hair and the bruises covering his skin that never seem to fade entirely.
“I haven’t seen you around the Houses of Parliament lately,” Harry says after the silence has stretched on for an awkwardly long time.
“Found another job,” Louis explains, still not lifting his eyes to meet Harry’s. He remembers how green they’d been even in the dark. “I help out at a chemist’s shop,” and he has no clue why he elaborates. “Deliver things. And such.”
Harry smiles at that, for some reason. “That sounds good. I mean, not standing outside all day. It’s cold.”
Louis stares at the snow. Finally looks up at Harry. “Obviously.”
The smile deepens. There are dimples carved into his cheeks. “Obviously,” Harry echoes quietly. “Do you… want to come inside? I’m meeting a friend at the club, but Liam wouldn’t mind if I cancelled.”
For the second time in just a handful of minutes, Louis finds it hard to breathe. He suddenly recalls the pressure of Harry’s fingertips below his jaw, lifting up his chin and the expanse of his chest, his smell, his taste –
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
Louis wants to laugh at that, so he does briefly, even if it sounds joyless and harsh. “Isn’t that obvious?” He keeps his eyes moving, passing over everything but Harry’s face.
Harry is quiet again, pondering over Louis’ question and he wants him to give up this instant and keep trying until Louis has to say yes. “I don’t care,” Harry settles on eventually, voice solid and unwavering.
Louis feels desperate. “You should.”
“But I don’t.” And that’s it right there. It’s easy for Harry, is the thing; Louis understands that. He doubts that anyone has ever told Harry no and it feels sickening to imagine – “I’m sorry, you know,” Harry cuts off his thoughts. “I realise I’ve been very… forward. And I probably made you feel uncomfortable, but I,” and he trails off.
It’s odd to see, this shift in Harry who’s been so sure of himself up to this point, quietly confident and steady. It makes him look very young all of a sudden and there is tightness in Louis’ chest that wasn’t there before when Harry runs a hand through his hair and ruffles it nervously. Yet Harry still manages to move closer and Louis can practically feel his body heat radiate off of him. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
It’s like a physical punch to his sternum. Louis wants to reply, with anything, but when he opens his mouth he can’t manage to create single sound. But Harry doesn’t seem fazed.
“You can tell me to stop and I will. Try, at least. But I really want to kiss you again.”
Colour rises in Louis’ cheeks, he’s sure of that and back are the vivid images, the hushed sounds and heavy breaths and he shouldn’t, but he still wants, too. For a second, Harry looks like he’s actually going to lean in and Louis’ heartbeat pulses in his throat. He takes a hasty step back. Harry draws his brows together.
“Not out here,” he mutters and Harry gets what he’s really saying. Somewhere else.
He steps closer again and Louis lets him. A gloved finger tickles the back of his left hand. “Come back here tonight,” he says, making Louis’ heart punch that much harder against his ribs. “It doesn’t matter when, I’ll wait for you, but just… Please come, even if it’s just to collect your coat. It is cold, after all.”
It’s a miracle, in Louis’ opinion, that he somehow manages to make it back to Ben’s in one piece. He’s still having trouble taking deep breaths and his heartbeat is fast and erratic, hands trembling with suppressed nervous energy. He tells himself he hasn’t made up his mind yet, pretends to think about the route he’s going to take to get back home, perhaps via Liverpool Street or rather a longer route along the Thames and past the Tower.
It’s another few hours of erratic thoughts and unsteady hands in the semi-dark before Ben finally sends him on his way after closing up. Louis walks down a crowded Edgware Road towards Marble Arch, but when he gets there, feet already soaked and numb, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets – he hesitates. He can go left, eastward, follow Oxford Street past Carnaby and keep moving until he gets to Whitechapel. Or he can walk straight ahead, down Park Lane with Hyde Park to his right or even cut straight through the park to reach Knightsbridge.
Louis can pretend about not having made up his made yet. But there is no point in pretending that he would be going to Lowndes Square to collect his coat. He figures it has been established what could potentially happen, even partially, and Louis has been denying himself things for so damn long that it’s so invigorating to want something again, even if that something turns out to be a practical stranger’s lips on his. He wants this; so much that he shivers with it, so tense that he fears he’s going to throw up his meagre lunch because his stomach keeps twisting.
He just needs to find out; needs to find out what could happen, what it could be like, or else he’d probably obsess over this till the next year. It’s not the first time his curiosity is going to get him into trouble, Louis is perfectly aware of that, and it’s not going to be the last.
Taking a deep, calming breath, he sets foot into Hyde Park.
It’s pitch black when Louis reaches 17 Lowndes Square and looks up towards the mahogany door with his heart in his throat. It’s deserted and quiet and peaceful. Only a few windows are illuminated, colouring the snow in warm hues that drag shadows with them. Louis can hear his own pulse throbbing loudly in his ears.
His legs are cold and stiff when he takes the slippery steps up to the front door, his breath a light cloud in front of his face, arms rigid by his side.
“What are you doing?” he utters to no one but himself as he unfreezes his hands and lifts them. Louis’ knuckles almost stick to the icy wood of the door when he knocks, holding his breath.
It doesn’t take nearly as long as Louis hoped for the door to be opened and he is once more face to face with the old man in his impeccable suit and milky eyes. Louis resists the urge to curl his spine or shrink away, perhaps turn on his heels and run all the way back to Whitechapel like any sane person would. But he notices as recognition dawn in the butler’s eyes and he steps aside, opening the door a little bit wider, to let Louis inside, but he remains on the threshold and can’t move. The butler raises one white eyebrow.
“Come in, Sir,” he says and Louis nearly laughs, wants to know what possessed this man to call him that, but he continues, making Louis’ heart stop for a second. “I shall fetch his lordship.”
He almost bolts at this. Just Harry, he’d said. This is absolute madness.
Louis’ feet seem to move on their own. The old butler leads the way along the dimly lit corridor and they’re surrounded by silence, not even a single floorboard creaking in the entire house aside from their own steps. Once again, up the carpeted staircase and past a dozen portraits who seem to judge him with dead eyes. The old man walks along yet another hallway and Louis hadn’t realised how truly massive this house actually is. They pass one door after the other and turn corners and he is very certain that he could get lost in this maze.
Eventually, Louis ends up in a room that looks like a small study. Or perhaps a sitting room, one of many reception rooms, he has no idea, he’s never been to a place like this. There are bookshelves lining the walls, a small table and upholstered chairs, a bloody ottoman and a crystal chandelier.
Louis feels so utterly out of place. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices the butler leaving again, but he can’t focus on that. All that’s whirring through his head is that he doesn’t belong here, that he has no place in this house. This is a world far removed from his own life and even the one he led before he’d had to start fending for himself. He opens his mouth and tries to even out his breathing, can’t seem to get enough air into his lungs and fears that he might start hyperventilating for a moment, that he’s about to have a panic attack surrounded by Bacon, Voltaire and Rousseau.
He steps closer into the centre of the room, carpet swallowing the sound, and wills himself to calm down. It doesn’t work.
The door screeches quietly in its hinges and Louis automatically turns around. Harry is standing right there, only a few feet away, pushing the door closed behind his back until the lock clicks. It almost knocks him back a step when his eyes zero in on Harry’s appearance. It’s such a stark contrast to his usual attire of tailored, sharp suits and the way his curls are artfully pushed away from his face. Right now, Harry’s hair brushes across his forehead, its softness a startling contrast to his symmetrical face, the clean line of his jaw. The white linen shirt he is wearing is loose and crinkled, only buttoned up to the pale, flat expanse of his chest, falling around his narrow waist. His feet are bare.
He looks so young.
Louis can see his chest expanding with every breath he takes in, one hand still wrapped around the doorknob. His eyes are slightly wide and they are focused on Louis as if he were the only thing worth looking at in this lavishly beautiful room, which – Louis doesn’t know what to do with that. A sudden wave of heat curls down his spine and he wants to fall to his knees.
“Louis,” Harry says, and his voice slides down Louis’ skin like honey.
He can’t breathe. “I –” and he almost chokes on that one word because his tongue feels like a foreign organ in his mouth. “I know it’s late, but I had to work and –”
“It’s fine,” Harry cuts him off, finally lets his other hand fall to his side and his fingers twitch until he balls them into fists, then unclenches them again. “I’m glad you came.” And suddenly his lips stretch into a wide, bashful smile. “God, I would’ve been happy to wait for you all night.”
Louis doesn’t particularly know how to respond to that. He still feels painfully out of place, somehow even more now than before, with Harry smiling at him, so disarmingly happy because of Louis’ presence when it’s actually nothing to be happy about. At least Louis doesn’t think it is.
“You shouldn’t,” he starts, but once again, Harry doesn’t let him finish.
“I thought we already established that I don’t really care.”
“Right,” Louis remembers, still out of breath and out of his depth.
The silence isn’t awkward, but it still stretches on and makes him feel unsettled in his own skin. There’s a window in the far corner of the room, framed by the bookshelves. Louis’ eyes flicker around nervously and settle on the thick, white flakes that whirl past the glass. He wonders what the others are doing at the moment; if Ed’s facing the snow to make a few extra pennies or if they’re all in their room, pressed closely together for warmth underneath a pile of moth-eaten cloths and blankets. Louis imagines the cold air seeping through the cracks in the walls and window and he wonders if Zayn is worried about him, or rather, knows that he is and Louis feels guilty for it.
He shouldn’t be here.
Harry has moved closer without Louis noticing and when the parquet floor suddenly creaks underneath his feet, Louis is pulled away from his thoughts, whips his head around fast enough to give himself whiplash. He suppresses a wince, suppresses the urge to press his palm to his burning neck because his face is equally heating up beneath Harry’s unwavering gaze.
Fingertips ghost over his jaw and across his cheeks and Louis feels his eyelids flutter lightly, his breath stumbles and his skin tingles. Harry is so close that his body heat entirely engulfs Louis’ still shivering figure, coldness stuck to his bones after months of freezing his limbs off. Harry’s eyes skim over his face, stopping at his eyes and his nose and his lips and Louis has no idea what’s so captivating to him that Harry can’t seem to stop running his fingers along the contours of Louis’ face, like a blind man trying to figure out his features, like tracing them would reveal any secrets.
Louis feels raw and exposed, letting himself be observed by someone like Harry, standing here with everything that he owns, which is nothing but the clothes that he wears; ratty clothes at that, filthy and unwashed and full of holes and sewn together so many times he is just waiting for any garment to fall apart again. Yet Harry doesn’t seem to mind, zeroing in on Louis’ lips and Louis knows the feeling that grips hold of him out of the blue when Harry’s gaze lingers, although he’s never felt it quite that way before.
It’s unfiltered desire that’s been building up for so long it almost sizzles between them when they lock eyes and Louis’ mouth drops open slightly in an attempt to fucking breathe, because that seems unbearably difficult at this point. His resolve is crumbling once again; he knows it is as Harry perhaps even absentmindedly runs his thumbs back and forth against Louis’ jaw.
He shouldn’t be here. But at the same time, Louis knows that somehow, this has been inevitable from the very start.
Louis doesn’t fight Harry when he tilts his head and dips in. His lips are parted and waiting and when they meet, it’s shockingly familiar, achingly so and Louis sinks into the kiss with far too much ease. His own are dry and chapped, slightly numb, but Harry’s lips are soft and warm. Harry throws his entire body into it, one hand sliding down Louis’ spine to the small of his back, making his knees buckle. Their bodies align automatically to prevent Louis from actually stumbling to the floor and now Louis can feel all of Harry pressed right up against him, making him gasp into Harry’s mouth before he can stop himself.
With a similarly sharp intake of air Harry pulls back. His hands remain on Louis’ waist and neck respectively and their faces are inches apart. Louis feels hot puffs of air against his face but refrains from opening his eyes. Shutting off this particular sense helps him detach this situation from his actual life and the storm he can hear picking up pace outside the window all but cocoons them in and separates this from everything else. Louis thinks he can do it this way, can allow himself to indulge and he doubts he’d be able to walk away at this point anyway.
But Louis doesn’t initiate anything. He stays still, encircled by Harry whose intimate touches burn his skin even through layers of clothing. If Harry wants, he’s going to have to take. Louis isn’t about to offer up anything the other doesn’t desire. Still, he shivers when fingers find a sliver of skin between his shirt and trousers, when Harry moves in to brush his lips along Louis’ cheekbone to his ear and he licks at the sensitive skin right beneath it.
Only when he tightens his fists does Louis realise he has them tangled in Harry’s shirt and as Harry keeps pressing open-mouthed kisses to his neck it’s as if all strings have been cut loose and his head drops forward. Hands grabbing linen even harder, Louis latches onto soft skin, nose pressed into the crook of Harry’s neck, taking in a clean, sharp smell, traces of scented oil and expensive cologne.
Harry’s hand dips lower, fingers digging into rounded flesh. “Let me take you to bed,” he breathes hotly into Louis’ ear.
Louis can only blindly bite at Harry’s collarbone before he melts into his arms.
They stumble along the corridor; laboured intakes of air the only sounds in the entire house, which appears to be fast asleep. Louis clings to the body guiding him along, muscles stretching and moving and twitching beneath his trembling hands, his head spinning uncontrollably. Around the corner and up another flight of stairs and then Harry pushes open a double wing door. Louis steps inside, only one lonely candle illuminating the room, but he has no time to take in his surroundings as Harry presses hotly against his back, mouthing at the juncture of his neck, moving his hands decidedly below the waist, and Louis stops thinking altogether.
The night slides by in long, hot stretches. Louis feels delirious with it, almost feverish as Harry encompasses him entirely, filling up every space in Louis’ mind. He gets pulled under, moving with Harry and breathing him in and not allowing an inch of space between their bodies, and every time he’s about to resurface, he realises he’s only getting closer to drowning.
Louis wakes up with a crick in his neck and his face buried in soft and sweet smelling sheets. He feels – he can’t really tell. He feels strange and disoriented for a handful of seconds, so unfamiliarly warm as if he’d fallen asleep in the sun. Then he moves and a limb that is decidedly not his slides down his waist.
He freezes. In his stillness he slowly becomes aware of a few more things. This is not their little room in Whitechapel and he is not lying on his itchy blanket. A glance down his body tells him that he is in fact very much naked and crisp, white sheets pooling around his middle aren’t hiding a lot. And there is a hot body pressed snugly to his back.
In the fraction of a second, everything comes rushing back to him.
Oh God, he thinks and is thankfully awake enough to bite his tongue before blurting it out. Panic grips his body tight and he shoots into a sitting position, heart beating so frantically that Louis fears it can be heard echoing across the room. He takes another look at his body, cheeks burning as he takes in the very distinctly finger-shaped bruises on his hips. Taking some calming breaths, swallowing the lump in his throat, Louis finally glances to his side and he regrets it instantly because Harry –
Harry is the most breathtaking thing he’s ever seen and something unfolds in his chest, quenches and drowns out the panic, a heavy warmth that pulls him down, drags him towards Harry’s still sleeping form. Their legs are still tangled. Every fibre in his body seems to be telling him to lie back down and slide Harry’s arms right back around his waist. But his head is telling him to leave, as long as he still can, as long as Harry is still asleep.
He’d left his common sense at the threshold last night. It’s time to pick it up again.
A quick glance to the window tells Louis that it’s early morning. It’s still snowing, as far as he can tell, and the light appears to have just started to break through thick clouds, so he knows he has enough time to get to work. Louis pushes all the battling emotions to the back and focuses on getting out of bed without waking Harry. He carefully untangles their legs and moves Harry’s arm away from his waist, then swings his feet over the edge. Louis winces when he stands and realises that his thighs are sticky, and he finds himself flushing once again, mind suddenly becoming flooded with images of the previous night, of Harry’s hands running over his chest as if he didn’t mind the scars and bruises and protruding bones, of his long body moving to cover Louis’ entirely and –
Louis gives his head a quick shake and concentrates on the pattern of the Persian rug underneath his bare feet and he starts to move away from the four-poster bed that is very daunting in daylight. The entire room is intimidating now that he actually sees it, Louis thinks, very large and very empty; there are two chests of drawers and a small desk, nothing more. Their clothes are scattered all over the carpeted floor and Louis moves mechanically, picking up and pulling on his socks, his trousers, his shirt, desperately trying not to think.
Just as he’s buttoning up his shirt, the sheets start rustling and a moment or two later, Harry is slowly sitting up in bed, one hand rubbing over his face, then ruffling his hair. Louis freezes. He can’t stop looking at him.
Harry blinks a couple of times before his sleepy eyes land on Louis. He smiles, quick and bright, as if he can’t help it, and Louis’ chest aches. “Why are you getting dressed?” he asks and his voice is deep and raspy. “It’s early.”
“I –” Louis starts, but then discovers that his throat is sore, his voice croaky, and he has to cough once before he can get any words out. “I need to get to work.”
“Oh,” Harry says, like he hadn’t even thought of that and Louis guesses that’s probably right, that it’s most likely a rather foreign concept to him, and it’s pulls him right back into reality, painfully so. “Are you coming back tonight?”
And here’s the thing. Louis should say I can’t, or at least I shouldn’t. Because this wasn’t supposed to happen in the first place and it absolutely can’t happen again. But Harry is looking at him, duvet barely covering his body, with wide and hopeful eyes that are so green and seem to tear right into his chest, and Louis can’t bring himself to tell him no. He doesn’t want to either.
“I don’t know,” he says instead and then watches transfixed as Harry gets up, not bothering to cover himself up in the slightest, all that milky skin on display just for Louis to look at and it seems surreal that he actually touched and tasted it extensively.
Then Harry is right there, in the blink of an eye, and he is warm, and so stunning and leaning in and Louis just can’t deny him. He curses himself even as he parts his lips meeting Harry’s and it’s just one more touch, one more taste before he has to get back out there and face the cold. It’s just so good and he has to resist the urge to feel for his own body because he thinks he might be melting, Harry’s hands running up and down his sides like he’s trying to coax Louis back into bed.
God, he wants to. It’s so tempting. But his job is a good thing, too. He’s so lucky that Ben gave him a chance and he can’t mess it up, he needs this job to survive. Louis needs it. He doesn’t need Harry.
Summoning all of his willpower, he pushes at Harry’s chest. “I have to go,” he tells him, their lips still brushing together softly. “I have to –”
“Promise you’ll come back tonight,” Harry interrupts him, fingers pressed into the marks he’s left on Louis’ skin, kissing him again, short and sweet. “Promise you’ll come.”
“I can’t,” he tries to insist. “I don’t know how long I have to stay today.” It’s a feeble excuse and it’s no surprise that Harry doesn’t swallow it.
“I’ll wait up. I don’t mind.”
“You shouldn’t –”
“I want to.”
“I don’t –”
“Louis.” He snaps his mouth shut. Harry’s fingers ghost over his cheek. “Promise me.”
Louis really doesn’t have an excuse for telling Harry, “all right.”
The snow is knee-deep in Hyde Park. The streets are hardly cleared. Louis can barely feel the lower half of his body when he gets to the back of the chemist’s shop. His hands have a blue-ish tinge and his teeth are clattering and it’s not much warmer inside the back of the shop. He wonders if it’s always been this bloody cold or if the one night in a heated room has thinned his skin.
Mrs. Winston is lighting two oil lamps when she notices him. Like always, she gives Louis a kind smile, wipes her hands on her apron. “I’ll fetch you some tea, dear,” she says. “You need to warm up. It’s dreadful out there.”
He wants to thank her, but Louis can’t actually control his jaw at the moment. His teeth are snapping together and his body is stiff when he moves closer to the two lamps that are radiating a bit of warmth. Louis is still rubbing his hands together in an attempt to coax some life back into his fingers when Mrs. Winston comes back with a steaming bowl and a woollen blanket tucked under her arm, which she immediately drapes over his shoulders, folding the ends together tightly. She’s a governess, Louis thinks, so this is probably very normal for her, taking care of someone, but Louis isn’t a child and it feels strange and he doesn’t quite know what to say to her.
“I need to get going,” she tells him, tightening her cloak, “but there is tea and more hot water upstairs, and if you get too cold, I want you to go upstairs and sit by the stove for a bit, understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Louis replies quickly, slowly coming back to it as he begins to feel his limbs again.
“Good. We can’t have you freeze to death down here now, can we?”
She leaves with a smile and Louis has time to heat up with the blanket and strong herbal tea before he picks up where he left off today sorting through one of the shelves in the far corner of the backroom where hardly any light reaches. Using his arms and hands brings them back to life eventually and the need to concentrate of the tasks at hand wipe his mind clear for a few, blissful hours. He has some doughy bread for lunch that he dips into the sugary tea Mrs. Winston left on the stove before he is back to work. Fortunately, Ben doesn’t make him do any deliveries and it’s not very busy, so he checks off his duties one after the other, swipes the floors and tidies up the front of the shop and is back out in the cold just when the nearby church’s bell strikes eight.
Louis needs to go home. He knows the boys will worry, are most definitely already worrying since he didn’t get home the night before and it’s easy to catch death out in this weather. He’s avoided thinking about Harry all day, but now that he’s unoccupied, his mind rushes straight back to him and before he knows it, Louis’ being pulled towards Knightsbridge by invisible ropes.
He’s been sitting on the snow-covered stairs for a while before he hears the door creaking, then a few muffled steps, and a cloak is dropped onto his shoulders. Louis doesn’t look up. He keeps his eyes on his hands, kneading them together because they’re raw with the cold, his breath a white cloud in front of his face. Fingers reach out to still him at his wrists and then suddenly, his hands are engulfed and covered, almost burning with warmth as Harry rubs them between his. After everything that’s already happened between them, Louis finds this to be their most intimate moment yet. It doesn’t make this easier.
“Why didn’t you knock? It’s freezing out here.”
Louis watches as Harry’s long fingers trace over his reddened knuckles. “I shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly and part of him hopes that Harry won’t hear.
“You’ve said that before,” Harry replies.
“Doesn’t make it less true.”
He hears Harry sigh, fights the urge to reclaim his hands that are slowly but steadily warming up between Harry’s palms. It’s starting to snow again, only softly this time. Louis tilts his head back and closes his eyes, breathes in the sharp, clean smell and lets small flakes land on his face. Despite all the differences, at least they breathe the same air for now. The thought is oddly calming.
“Why do you keep insisting on that?” Harry’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “That you shouldn’t be here. That we shouldn’t… do this.”
Louis drops his chin and turns his head to face Harry. The soft light that spills over them from the slightly ajar door pronounces his features and Louis wants to spend hours just following the sharp, perfect lines of his face with his fingertips in hope of storing it in his memory for as long as he can. There are snowflakes in his hair and on his shoulders, his body still clad in a perfectly tailored, black suit. It’s not that late, he’s probably been busy until now, Louis figures, but now that he’s seen Harry’s body move in weak candlelight, almost as pale as his white cotton sheets, this image of him doesn’t fit anymore. But perhaps he’s fooling himself; perhaps it’s Louis who doesn’t fit.
“Because it’s how it is,” Louis answers. “We’re just… we’re not exactly the same. I don’t even know what you want with me.”
“I want to get to know you,” Harry says without hesitation and Louis is inclined to believe him, can’t detect a lie in his words, but that doesn’t mean he understands.
“Why?”
“I just do,” and it, once again, seems as easy as that for Harry, which is probably right. It’s not likely that his head is going to roll if they’re found out. Louis would be the one thrown into prison, or getting hanged. There are solid reasons for him being so damn terrified of this other than the fact that he can’t think straight around Harry. He’s usually smarter than this.
“If people find out,” Louis can’t help but start, yet he can’t bring himself to finish.
“They won’t,” Harry assures him after a moment’s silence.
He nods his head towards the big house behind them. “There are a lot of people in there.”
“They’re discreet. And they’re good people. I trust them.” Harry gets up and pulls Louis up with him in one, swift movement, bringing him close. “Lets go inside.”
He starts ascending the stairs and Louis can’t do anything but follow.
There is no hesitation left between them when they sink down onto the sheets just a short while later, the urgency from their last encounters gone and replaced with something Louis doesn’t ponder on, doesn’t want to identify because it scares him even more than the prospect of getting his neck snapped. Touches that were frantic and uncoordinated before turn languid, moving with purpose and kisses are deep and linger until Louis has to arch off the bed, nails painting crescent moons and red lines onto Harry’s skin in an attempt to get him closer.
Harry cocoons him in, fills every cell of his body until Louis’ mind runs on a loop and he looks at him, eyes always on Louis, not flittering away for even a second and it’s so much that Louis has to turn his face into the pillows. At first he bites his lip so hard he fears it might start to bleed, embarrassed about the noises that threaten to escape his throat, the smell of scented oil heavy and getting to his head, the twitching light making him dizzy. But he is steadily losing ground with every press of Harry’s lips, every drag of teeth over burning skin, every additional taste of him on Louis’ tongue.
Louis takes a mouthful of pillow, nudging his nose into it, hiding away, and muffling the groans that keep spilling over his lips. He feels Harry’s palm on his cheek, sliding across, thumb coming to rest just below his ear.
“Look at me,” he breathes, an echo of the first time they’d stood facing each other in this house not too long ago, and it feels like an eternity or maybe just a day and it doesn’t even matter, because Louis still can’t refuse him. Harry’s curls are falling wildly around his face, a thin sheen of sweat graces his skin, a single drop sliding down his temple and along his jaw. “You’re so beautiful,” and Louis has to reach for him, has to pull Harry down, open mouths touching and tongues sliding together, because he can’t bear any more raw affection, doesn’t know what to do with it other than move past it.
Louis swallows down another moan, tightens his arms and legs around Harry’s trembling form and arches his spine until there’s not an ounce of air between their bodies.
White light flares behind his eyelids.
They don’t fall asleep. Louis feels tired and his body is sore and heavy, but he still doesn’t fall asleep and neither does Harry and Louis isn’t quite certain how to handle this situation. For now, he tries to concentrate on getting his pulse back to normal and to control his breathing until his bare chest rises and falls regularly. He watches long shadows dance across the ornamented ceiling instead of looking at Harry, who is unashamedly staring at him, Louis can tell. His skin is prickling.
Silence stretches on for another handful of moments before the sheets rustle and Louis feels a hand brushing through his messy hair, pushing it out of his face, smoothing it back.
“What are you thinking about?” Harry asks, and Louis is already familiar with the change in his voice, slightly deeper, on just the right side of rough.
“I’m not sure,” he replies and it’s the truth. His brain is still stringing together senseless phrases, not connected or related, not making much sense. But he dares to throw the question back. “What about you?”
His smile is soft, dimples only hinted at. “Thinking about you, I guess,” Harry admits unabashed. “Where you’re from, and such.”
“Live in Whitechapel,” Louis says.
“Yes, but –” Harry retorts, only hesitates for a moment, chewing on his already reddened lips, like he’s too shy to ask, and this uncertainty makes him look small and young again. Louis enjoys that contrast, he thinks, enjoys that they’re probably around the same age, on the same level when it comes to that at least. “I want to know about your life. What – what do your parents do?”
It drives through Louis’ chest like a pointy icicle. It’s warm in this room, warm in Harry’s bed, under Harry’s sheets and with Harry’s body pressed to his side, but Louis might as well be naked and bare out in the cold. “Well,” he says, swallowing around the word and it hurts, but he is oddly detached. That might be the reason why his bones are like ice – because he doesn’t quite feel a lot anymore. “Pushing up daisies, I assume.”
Louis figures he’s shocked Harry a fair bit with that reply; he most likely hadn’t expected that. He fights the urge to remind him that it’s common out there, not really having anyone and having to pull through nonetheless.
“Oh.” A heavy pause. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. Was a long time ago. It’s just life.” Life for the likes of him, Louis thinks, but doesn’t add, because he knows Harry can’t be blamed for his privileged birth. “There are a lot of us out there.”
Still, he rolls over onto his side, tugging the blankets with him, facing away. It doesn’t take long until the mattress dips and Harry moves as well, pressing right up behind him and Louis tries not to give much thought to the way his chest suddenly unclenches.
“What happened?”
It’s asked slow, and hesitant, and Louis doesn’t have to tell Harry a single thing. He doesn’t owe Harry the truth and he’s never talked much about his family, at first because it had simply hurt too much. Afterwards, and it embarrasses him to admit it – he’d just forgotten. They all have their stories, Zayn and Ed and Stan and Aiden and all the others he’s met over the past years, and they all have to carry their own burden. There is enough to shoulder without having to hold on to their past. He’s learned not to be sentimental.
“My father died in jail. My mother and sisters got infected with cholera the same year.”
Arms snake around his waist and chest, as if Harry were trying to hold Louis together, to keep him from falling apart. Louis wants to tell him to stop, that he’s shattered to pieces so many times and painstakingly put himself back together, all broken and wrong with pieces missing. Harry shouldn’t bother.
“Do you want to tell me about them?”
No, Louis really doesn’t. He is not even sure how to talk about them, if he’s being honest with himself. He hasn’t, not ever, not even with Zayn, because they’d both been so young and cold and desperate and most of all alone, and they hadn’t needed any explanations, any painful stories about what they’d lost. Yet before he even knows what’s happening, Louis’ lips start to move entirely on their own and –
And he tells Harry everything.
He tells him about moving to London from a small town up north where his father had been teaching, a friend offering him a better position in the capital. A few happy years in their very own flat, spacious and open and always warm, new siblings and new clothes and toys, friends and school. Louis remembers coming home and finding his mother in tears and their home completely wrecked. They hadn’t managed to keep the flat, any money they’d saved up suddenly gone. He’d stayed at a friend’s house looking after his sisters while his mother had gone off to work in a factory on the South Bank.
Cholera had broken out in October, and by November, Louis had been on his own with nothing but the clothes on his back and his father’s favourite book (he still has it, never managed to let go of it, hidden under the loose floorboards of their room) in his hands.
“They put me into an orphanage for a month,” he continues. “But they threw me and a few others out. Too old, too many mouths to feed.” It all comes flooding out of his throat and he just can’t stop, memories suddenly so vivid again, of Zayn and Stan and him standing knee-deep in snow, not knowing where to go or what to do.
“We stuck together, somehow made it through the winter, and the next, and the one after that. Didn’t really have a choice but get on with it. That’s all it is.”
Louis tries not to sound apologetic about it. And he is not ashamed of who he is, and what he does; he is not. They all did quite well considering where they were at just a few years ago, a time he does not want to relive. They’re not starving – they’re not dying.
He takes a deep breath, hands subconsciously clinging tighter onto the sheets. Louis isn’t relieved or upset, he just feels drained all of a sudden, a kind of exhaustion that is unrelated to anything he and Harry had done earlier. Harry is still lying behind him, is still holding him against his chest, breathing against Louis’ neck, nose buried in his hair, but Louis doesn’t miss the way his fingers are trembling.
“I’m sorry. That’s probably not what you wanted to hear.”
“Don’t say that.” Harry’s voice is quiet against Louis’ skin, oddly throaty like – oh. “Please, I just – I’m so sorry.”
Louis bites his lip, hard, before he replies. “Don’t be. I’m better off than most people.”
“But still –”
“No.” Louis turns around in his arms. The sheets twist around his legs but he pays no attention to that. Harry’s face is only inches away. His eyes are wide and glassy. “Life isn’t fair. Better not to dwell on it.”
His arms are trapped between their bodies and Louis has no choice but place his hands on Harry’s chest and if his fingers start tracing along his collarbones – well.
“It should be,” Harry insists. There is a stubborn curve to his brows, a determined look in his eyes. “It makes me sick sometimes, to see what happens in this city, and I don’t even see everything, do I? I don’t want to think about you being cold, or hungry, so if you need anything, food, or money,” and he moves his hand to touch Louis’ check.
Louis grabs his wrist, harder than he has to, harder than is appropriate considering his status, and Harry’s. “Don’t you dare,” he tells him, with less venom than he intended. “Don’t ever say that again. I can take care of myself. And I am here because I choose to be.” Louis swallows thickly, keeps his voice and heartbeat even. “I’m not some whore you can pay off.”
Harry looks like Louis slapped him right across the face. He knows it’s not what Harry was insinuating, but it’s something Louis needs to make clear, probably more to himself than Harry. He chose to come here, three times, and by now there is no denying that Louis wants to be here, with Harry, but he’s not allowing anything else. Louis may be an orphan who’s spent half his life on the street, but that doesn’t mean he lost his dignity or his self-worth along the way.
“I didn’t –”
“I know,” Louis mercifully cuts in and suddenly there is a tug on the corners of his lips. “I just needed to make that clear.”
Harry’s face is wiped clear and filled with a disarming grin, wide and showing his teeth.
“What?”
“You’re smiling,” Harry says, almost breathless. “You haven’t smiled before. You should, though. I think it might be my favourite expression of yours already.”
He kisses the expression right off Louis’ face, as if he were trying to savour it. Louis sinks back and lets it happen.
The following day begins in much the same way as the previous one. The streets are still white and it’s unusually cold for this time of year, but when Louis heads to the bakery across the street around noon to get some bread for Mrs. Winston and something to eat for himself, a bit of sun peeks through the clouds. He closes his eyes for a second and relishes the feeling on his skin when he hears someone calling his name. A quick glance to the right tells him that it is Zayn. He is approaching Louis rather quickly and when he’s standing right in front of him, he lands a solid punch to Louis arm.
“Ow, hey!” Louis calls out and jerks back, almost dropping his scone. “Why did you do that?”
Zayn narrows his eyes. “Where the hell have you been?” He grabs Louis by the sleeve and pulls him into the narrow alley that leads to the back of the chemist’s shop, gives him a shove. Louis’ back collides with the wall. He winces. “We’ve been worried fucking sick, you bastard!”
“I’m –”
“Don’t say you’re sorry, or I swear to God, Louis,” and he jabs his finger against Louis chest like he’s trying really hard not to clock him. Louis feels guilt seep through his body, because he hadn’t spared that many thoughts for what Zayn and the others might think if he went missing a second night. “They found another body, okay? Some poor bastard gutted and frozen to death and for a moment I thought – I mean, do you have any idea,” and he wants to continue, Louis can tell, but he’s suddenly gripped by a violent cough that shakes his entire body.
Louis pushes off the wall instantly and steadies Zayn, one hand on his back, one on his arm. “Zayn –”
“I’m fine,” he wheezes, not very convincingly, before he has to cough again until his eyes are brimming with tears.
“That doesn’t sound good,” Louis observes and leads him towards the back entrance. “Come on, you can stay inside, I’m sure Ben won’t mind,” and he pulls Zayn, who’s still struggling for air, closer to his side, manoeuvres him across the icy threshold and into the backroom. Once inside, Zayn’s lungs seem to relax slightly and he starts to breathe normally again. “Are you all right?”
“You smell weird.”
Louis freezes. Zayn looks up, eyes red but focused on him, brows furrowed. He hadn’t though about that; about Harry’s staff secretly washing and drying his clothes over night and folding them neatly. They’re softer on his skin and he probably hadn’t noticed the smell because – because he’s already getting so familiar with it.
“I stayed here,” he blurts out a lie before he can think twice. “The weather was awful so I slept in the basement. Mrs. Winston dried my coat so maybe that’s why it smells different.”
Zayn doesn’t seem convinced, but he lets it go. He ends up settling into a corner, leaning against a chest of drawers, pulling his skinny limbs close to his body. Every once in a while, a cough will work its way past his lips. They remain oddly quiet throughout the day, but Louis feels Zayn’s eyes on him without pause. After Ben has locked up the shop, Zayn grabs Louis’ arm and together they make their way back to Whitechapel.
“Think I knew him,” Stan suddenly speaks up, words, although quiet, slicing through the dark. They’re all lying close together; Louis curled around Zayn and there’s Aiden’s head somewhere by his knees and Ed’s elbow digging into his back. Stan is on Zayn’s other side, trying to keep him warmest, because he’s still coughing like he wants to spit out his lungs and getting ill is something they always try to avoid.
“Knew whom?” Louis asks, already drifting off. He’s glad the few nights spent in Harry’s bed haven’t spoiled him and he still knows how to sleep on the floor.
“The guy they found near Church Street,” Stan replies. “The one they thought had just frozen to death, but apparently his neck was snapped. Apparently it was Thomas Hewson.”
“Should that ring any bells?” Zayn still sounds absolutely miserable.
“He got kicked out just a month before we did, I think. Worked for a Butcher’s in Bethnal Green. No idea why anyone would want him dead. Didn’t have a penny on him and wasn’t bright.”
“Think it’s connected to the other guy?” Ed pipes up and Louis feels a chill seep through his body that runs far deeper than the dropping temperatures gripping this room tightly. Subconsciously, he burrows closer to Zayn who hums appreciatively and presses his burning forehead to Louis’ shoulder.
“Well, he was an orphan as well, wasn’t he?” Stan wonders aloud.
Louis swallows around a lump in his throat. “Makes no sense, though,” he says. “They didn’t have anybody and they didn’t have anything of value either. Killing them would be a waste of time. It makes no sense.”
“Someone didn’t think so,” Stan objects quietly.
Louis doesn’t have anything to say to that. Neither do any of the others. When he goes to sleep some time later, he dreams of black alleys and scarlet puddles and deafening steps echoing behind him as he runs.
***
to be continued.
Chapter 3: III.
Summary:
“I can’t.” Louis knows it’s not the most eloquent answer and Zayn isn’t going to let it rest this time, but he still reaches for his hands, peels his fingers off his lapels and takes a step back. Zayn is still close, and Louis hopes he hasn’t realised that his clothes are clean and smell of soap, but of course Zayn tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing.
“You can’t,” he repeats flatly. “Does it have anything to do with you smelling like bloody lavender?”
Notes:
WARNINGS for this chapter: - Mentioned/Referenced Minor Character Death (present and past)
- LanguageDisclaimer: I do not own, nor do I know the people featured in this story. Their characterization is based on my personal perception of them and I do not claim that this is the truth. Please respect the Fourth Wall.
A/N: As always, thank you Brit for everything! Honestly wouldn't have gotten this far without you. All remaining mistakes are my own, please do enjoy. All kind of feedback is appreciated (here or on my tumblr under the same name). See you next week!
Chapter Text
CHAPTER III.
“But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”
W.B. Yeats, The Wind Among the Reeds 1899
***
He wakes up with a racing heart, feeling even more tired than before. Zayn’s forehead is burning against Louis’ skin but his hands are almost icy where they’re circled around Louis’ wrist. Stan and Aiden are already gone, Ed’s just sitting up, rubbing his eyes, ginger hair sticking out wildly. Zayn’s eyelids flutter when Louis presses the back of his hand to his left temple, but he seems mostly out of it.
“How’re you feeling?”
The hand not touching Louis’ wrist pulls the blanket closer around his body. “Fine,” he says, voice cracking. “Go to work and let me sleep, arsehole.”
Worry curls in Louis’ chest. He and Ed share a quick glance. “I can ask Ben,” Louis tells Zayn. “Maybe he has something you can take to get better quicker.”
“Couldn’t afford it.” Zayn lets out a laboured breath. “You know we can’t.”
Louis does know that, but it doesn’t make it any better. “Maybe I can put in a few more hours at the shop or get something in exchange for my salary,” he suggests, but Louis knows that wouldn’t help them in the slightest, because they need his salary to pay their rent and get food. With Zayn knocked out they have even less than usual.
Neither Zayn nor Ed says anything in return, probably because they know it’s of no use. Zayn starts coughing and Louis’ chest aches. He gets up and grabs his coat and hat and scarf, then he turns to Ed and together they walk to the door.
“I’ll stay with him,” Ed says. “Maybe I can get some hot water and vinegar from Mrs. Watson downstairs, get the fever down.”
“Okay, thanks.” He wipes a shaking hand across his face. “I’ll ask Ben anyway. Perhaps he can help.”
Ed nods. “Do that. But don’t get your hopes up, man.”
“When do I ever do that,” Louis mutters as he walks out the door.
“He needs rest,” Ben tells him when Louis explains their situation. They’re in the basement, sorting through some powders and tinctures with Louis rewriting the labels and cleaning empty vials. “It doesn’t sound like a virus, so a few days in bed and keeping warm should work wonders.”
When Louis is about to leave in evening, just past eight, Mrs. Winston hands him a small paper bag. “There’s some ginger root in there,” she says, “and a little bit of honey. Crush it and put it in some hot water. He should have at least three cups every day.”
Louis is so grateful he wants to cry. “Thank you so much,” he tells her, clutching the bag to his chest.
“You’re welcome, dear. Just – look after one another, all right? Take care.”
He doesn’t hesitate when he heads back to Whitechapel. Not once does he pause and ponder on turning around to sneak off to Knightsbridge again. But he wants to; Lord, does Louis want to. Louis doesn’t think he could’ve anticipated the sense of yearning he feels when he thinks of Harry. Yes, he tries to keep his mind occupied and he doesn’t have any illusions, there are more important things at the moment and Zayn is important. But he’s started wanting and now he can’t seem to stop and he forces down the images of their nights, secret and forbidden and so full of –
“Get it together, Tomlinson,” he scolds himself and continues on with his eyes on the ground.
Zayn gets better, just gradually, but he does and Louis feels a thousand times lighter. They take turns to stay with him and make sure he doesn’t sneak outside because he feels guilty for not contributing to anything, and they make him drink hot ginger and Mrs. Watson feels sorry enough to lend them another blanket until Zayn’s fever has gone down. He’s still coughing, but Zayn returns to the world, Ed keeping an eye on him as they make their way through East London to dip their hands into pockets.
It’s been a little more than a week when Louis finally returns to 17 Lowndes Square. He’d debated long and hard, taking a detour around Hyde Park because he couldn’t make up his mind. But Zayn and the others are out anyway and he doesn’t think it’ll do any harm if he’s away for one night. He tries not to think about whether Harry even wants to see him or not, whether he’s even at home, because there is a strong tug in his chest that won’t be denied, that feels exhilarating and unsettling at the same time.
There are a couple of rooms alight when he comes to stand in front of the stairs leading up to the front door. The snow has mostly disappeared by now, leaving behind nothing but brown mush and slippery surfaces. Louis thinks his body isn’t the only thing that could take a tumble.
His heart is once again ready to leap up his throat when he knocks on the door.
It’s quiet for a handful of beats before Louis hears commotion from inside, a couple of voices calling out and feet thundering up or down stairs and a second later the door is wrenched open and Harry is standing right in front of him, out of breath and his chest heaving with it beneath his unbuttoned shirt.
Louis has no time to even produce a single syllable before he is hauled in by his shoulders and Harry is warm and solid and painfully familiar, curls tickling the side of Louis’ face, arms encircling his body, making all nerves stand on end. Harry hunches over like he’s trying to curl himself around Louis entirely. Louis feels his lips against his neck, below his ear, sliding along his jaw.
They’re still practically out in the open.
“I was worried about you.”
Louis blinks. “What?”
Slowly, Harry moves backwards, shuffling inside, one arm letting go of Louis just to shut the door before Louis finds himself pressed up against solid wood. He gasps into Harry’s shoulder.
“I thought something had happened,” Harry elaborates then, touching their foreheads together, making it so fucking hard to breathe and Louis can’t tell if his skin’s too big or too tight. Every fibre in his body is crawling and twitching. “When you didn’t come back.”
“I’m sorry,” is all Louis has to offer him, and all he can add is, “I had some things to take care of.” He doesn’t say that he spent the last week afraid his best friend was going to die, doesn’t tell Harry that he had once again become so terrifyingly aware of how helpless he truly is.
“Don’t be,” Harry says, still inexplicably breathless. “You’re here now.” His hands come up to cradle Louis’ jaw, thumbs pressing softly against his cheekbones.
Louis’ jaw drops slightly. “I’m here now,” he echoes; mind wiped pleasantly clear, a low buzz starting to ring in his ears, blurring too sharp edges until everything feels soft and light.
“You are,” Harry breathes and meets his parted lips.
Louis has never been able to switch off his brain. He’d been absolutely awful as a child, loud and brash and unable to stay still with his mind providing a constant stream of stimulation until he’d become old enough to help around the house and do chores. But still, he had continued to get into trouble, mostly because he hadn’t been able to keep his mouth shut, hadn’t been able to keep his thoughts to himself.
It’s unsettling that after so many years of his subconscious rambling away in the back of his head, Harry manages to quieten him down, to cover him in calmness and Louis zeroes in on him, can’t focus on anything but him. It makes his heart beat faster and it makes his breath hitch and he is so desperate for Harry to look at him, just look at him and see him and it becomes so overwhelming that Louis can’t do anything but hold on.
Yet Louis feels safe here, even though he is completely exposed. They’re still figuring things out, figuring each other out, but he already loves the way Harry’s teeth close around the soft flesh on his neck, how sweat shimmers on his upper lip and Harry distractedly licks it off and Louis loves to trace endless lines along Harry’s long body, imagines he’s hiding stories beneath his milky skin, all the things Louis would never dare to say out loud but wants Harry to have nonetheless.
They orbit around one another the entire night and Louis can’t even think about sleep, can’t bear the idea of closing his eyes and missing a single moment and it does scare him that this – it’s just slipping from his fingers. But then Harry nudges their noses together in a surprisingly innocent display of affection and their gazes lock and Louis starts to feel like the little cocoon they’ve created for themselves is all that really matters.
And perhaps there is some truth to that.
When Louis opens his eyes and light floods across the bed, he almost jumps out of his skin in panic before remembering that it’s Sunday and Ben never opens the shop on a Sunday. Still, he sits up and sheets slide off his bare chest and there is a distinct lack of a second body. He glances around with bleary eyes. The door is closed and there is a pile of neatly folded clothes on top of one of the cabinets. Louis’ own clothes that had been strewn across the room hours before are gone. Of course.
Louis drags his body out of bed and the room is so warm he doesn’t even shiver as he walks to the cabinet to examine the clothes undoubtedly laid out for him. It makes him feel slightly uncomfortable to put it all on, despite the materials being incredibly soft, because he is so used to his own things, and he is used to having something that’s his on his skin. He knows Harry is just being kind, but it still feels a lot like pity.
He doesn’t bother with all of the shirt buttons and he leaves his feet bare. The trousers are big on him, sitting low on his hips and he rolls them up at the ankles to not accidentally step on the hems. Then he leaves the room in search for Harry.
The house feels strange in daylight, not as much like a dream anymore but very real. Nothing is hidden in the dark and Louis can’t sneak in and slip out. He follows the corridor with slow steps, listening out, pulse accelerating when he hears Harry’s voice, fortunately, just a few doors down. Louis doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t think twice before he pushes it open.
And just like that, their little cocoon shatters.
Harry is not alone. He’s sitting at a round table, a tray with steaming tea right in the middle, and there are two other persons, around his age, on the opposite side. Harry’s shirt is still crinkled and not done up all the way, but the other two are in impeccable suits. They’re all looking at him, two pairs of eyes assessing curiosity, one pair brightening up with a smile.
“Louis,” Harry says and then the legs of his chair scrape over the floor.
He moves towards him, but Louis only notices out of the corner of his eyes, gaze frozen on the two people still observing him and his heart is jackrabbiting in his chest. Harry touches his fingers to Louis’ cheek, drawing his attention in, and Louis is too late to notice Harry leaning in, pressing a kiss to his lips.
Louis shrinks back so violently that he stumbles, his back colliding with the doorframe. Harry’s brow is furrowed, his expression slightly confused, but Louis’ eyes keep flickering between him and the other two and Harry gets it, Louis thinks, because he grabs Louis’ hand, stills him before moving the both of them into the hallway, shutting the door as he goes.
“Louis,” he says again, reaching for him and Louis fights the urge to flinch back, again. “They’re my best friends. They know, and they don’t care.”
Louis lets out a shaky exhale. His heart is still beating fast, but here between just Harry and him, it’s starting to calm down again. “A little warning would’ve been nice.”
It only seems to occur to Harry now. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t – I completely forgot. I’ve been talking so much about you, it slipped my mind you’ve never actually met them.”
“You told them about…” Louis leaves it open-ended. He doesn’t even know how to describe what they’re doing, let alone what Harry would say to his friends.
“Yes, I,” Harry begins, biting his lip, “it’s just that I really couldn’t stop thinking about you. And I might have chewed their ears off on more than one occasion. But I mean, I can stop and you don’t… have to meet them, if you don’t want to.”
“No, I,” and Louis is surprised himself that he doesn’t mind meeting them as much as he initially thought, now that the fright has worn off a little. It might have something to do with Harry continuously running his hands up and down Louis’ waist, hands big and warm, slipping under his shirt. “People get hanged for this,” he ends up saying, hoping that this explains why he’s so bloody terrified.
Harry cocks his head to the side, softly, then he presses a quick but solid kiss to Louis’ lips. “I’ve known them almost my entire life. There’s nobody I trust more.” Then he takes Louis’ hand and opens the door.
He can’t help but still feel nervous about this, because apart from the fact that he and Harry engage in something society deems a carnal sin; Harry’s friends are an overwhelming amount of steps above Louis on the social ladder as well. He is practically dirt underneath their fingernails and Louis isn’t sure how Harry thinks this situation is going to play out.
They walk back into the room and Harry doesn’t let go of his hand, stays close to Louis as they approach the table together. “This is Liam,” Harry says, nodding towards the one with neatly trimmed brown hair. There is a serious air about him, a level of maturity and sobriety that Louis hasn’t seen with Harry. He gives Louis a curt nod that Louis fails to return. “And that’s Niall.”
The guy with wild, blond hair grins widely, slouching back on his chair and such a sharp contrast to Liam’s perfect posture that Louis almost sighs in relief. “Y’all right, mate?” He’s got a thick Irish accent.
Louis doesn’t know what to say to them. He sinks into one of the chairs, right next to Harry, pathetically clinging to his hand like a lifeline. It’s pure instinct, he tells himself, and he’s gotten used to and comfortable with Harry, but Liam and Niall are undeniably upper class; hell, they could be fucking aristocracy for all Louis knows, and he’s spent his entire life cowering for them. Habits are hard to break.
There’s tea and strange looking pastries and Louis hasn’t eaten in nearly a day but it’s the same as with the clothes – he likes things to be his. He doesn’t like to just take when he hasn’t earned it himself and Harry would undoubtedly coax him into sharing breakfast if they were alone and perhaps Louis would be more inclined to swallow his pride, but not in front of the others. He doesn’t need anybody to feed and take care of him, and he doesn’t want to give them the impression.
Harry doesn’t seem to mind that Louis keeps quiet as they commence with their conversation. He keeps holding Louis’ hand, rubbing small circles onto the back of it with his thumb. Louis fixes his gaze onto the carpet, tracing the patterns with his eyes, cataloguing the colours, but whenever he looks up, Harry is smiling at him, and Niall – strangely enough – is too.
It eases him enough to actually start to follow the conversation, to listen to what they’re talking about and once he’s cleared his head enough to really take it in, he regrets it immediately. Louis guesses he should have made the connection, seeing that he had seen Harry and (now he remembers) Liam outside the Houses or Parliament. So when Liam starts talking about the Conservative Party and a new law to supposedly aid workers’ rights, Louis has to try very hard not to snort and make a comment, because he can’t keep his mind quiet, but at least he’s got enough will to survive to not insult politicians. He just finds it laughable, the idea of middle-aged men in expensive suits pretending to be part of a fair democracy when everybody knows the Empire is run by a small group of elitists who pretend to care.
They have no idea of what the real world is like, but Louis isn’t stupid enough to remind them of that.
“I take it you’re not meeting us at the club later?” Liam asks suddenly and Louis realises he’s apparently zoned out quite a chunk of their conversation.
“Well, I mean,” Harry replies, trailing off. He’s squeezing Louis’ hand, palm starting to get a little sweaty, and chews on his lip like he does when he’s unsure about something, Louis has come to gather. “Are you,” he starts, looking at Louis, “do you have anywhere to be today?”
Louis can tell that Niall is smiling widely, almost grinning, out of the corner of his eye and – well. He doesn’t have to work for Ben on Sundays. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have to work at all. Usually, Louis and Zayn hang around Spitalfields, or any place that’s busy and not too far, and he keeps cave while Zayn does his thing. Sometimes it results in a bit of extra cash, a meal that isn’t old bread or watery porridge, or a bottle of liquor if they’re lucky.
Louis isn’t stupid enough to tell them about that either.
He knows he’ll get an earful from the others once he shows up late in the evening or even only the next day, but right now, Louis can’t be asked to care. “No,” he says slowly. “No, not today.”
Harry’s answering smile is blinding and Louis hopes the sudden curl of heat in his belly isn’t showing on his face.
“Right,” Niall suddenly pipes up. The legs of his chair groan as he pushes out of it. “Think that’s our cue to leave. You’re turning me teeth rotten.”
Harry guffaws, but he stays in his seat even when Liam gets up, so Louis does as well, which results in him being entirely unprepared for a sudden, solid armful of Irishman as Niall squeezes his shoulders, the odd angle pressing Louis’ face right up against his chest. He is too baffled to do anything but stare at Niall with wide eyes, even as he pulls away and gives Harry an equally bone-crushing hug.
Liam is waiting by the door, offering a curt nod. “Don’t forget about lunch tomorrow,” he tells Harry pointedly. “One o’clock at Brown’s.”
Then they’re gone and Louis is too dumbstruck to react much.
“He’s always like that,” Harry’s voice pulls him back and when Louis gazes at him questioningly, he smiles. “Niall, I mean. He can be quite –”
“Mhm,” Louis agrees. “Quite the character.”
“Suppose so. But he’s Irish,” Harry says, like that’s an explanation in itself and perhaps it is. Then he lifts Louis’ hand to his mouth, kisses his knuckles in a way that makes Louis want to dunk his head in ice-cold water. “Should we go back to bed?”
Louis has never spent an entire day in bed for no particular reason, especially not in the last couple of years. He dimly remembers having the flu as a child and sleeping through fever dreams for days, but he’s never stayed in bed simply because he’d wanted to. Right now, he doesn’t think he could ever again muster up the strength to slip out from underneath the soft, warm sheets.
His body is heavy yet paradoxically weightless, a pleasant ache stuck to his limbs and Louis doesn’t have the strength to untangle his legs from Harry’s, toes brushing along his ankles, or detach his hands from Harry’s skin, subconsciously dragging their tips across until he can be sure there isn’t an inch he hasn’t touched, and he can’t lift his head off of Harry’s chest, solid and steady heartbeat right against his ear.
Each thud is another nail in the coffin of Louis’ common sense.
They’ve been quiet for a while. But the space they’ve created for themselves doesn’t need to be filled with words. There are so many things crowding it already; sounds and scents and touches and – God forbid – feelings. It might be too much, Louis thinks, desperately trying to drown out yet another wave of arousal as Harry’s hands that had been innocently drawing circles onto his shoulder blades start to slide lower, fingers curious and brash.
Louis turns his face into Harry’s skin, trying to muffle the groan that threatens to stumble over his lips. He feels it all the way down to his toes and it tingles in his fingertips and he breathes hotly over Harry’s chest.
“What’s your favourite colour?”
For a moment, Louis thinks he’s completely misheard him. “What?”
“Your favourite colour,” Harry repeats, like they’re having tea and scones and were just talking about the weather.
Louis wants to reply, but all that comes out is a gasp as Harry curls his fingers. His voice is thin and hoarse once he manages to actually take enough air in to be able to form proper thoughts and words. “I don’t know,” he breathes, trying to pay back in kind, mouthing at the spot between Harry’s collarbones, blood already coming up to the surface, the mark distinct on milky skin. “Partial to red, I guess. It’s bright.” Louis kisses the bruise once, for good measure, watches as Harry’s Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. “What’s yours?”
“Blue,” he says close to Louis’ ear, sending a shiver down his spine and adding to the sensations setting his body on fire. Louis’ mouth feels dry. “Cornflower blue,” Harry adds after a moment, his other hand firm on the small of Louis’ back, anchoring him. “Reminds me of home, of the fields around Arley Hall in spring, covered in cornflowers.”
He twists his wrist, almost as an afterthought and Louis feels suspended between the image of Harry in a field of bright blue flowers and this as another burst of heat ripples through his body.
“My sister and I used to sneak out,” Harry continues, “pick the flowers, and put them in our hair until it was all in knots.”
He rolls them over, not very fast but it appears that way to Louis. Harry’s weight presses him into the mattress, heat culminating where their hips are flush and his legs fall open to accommodate Harry. Louis has half a mind to be embarrassed of the noises he can’t keep in as Harry keeps moving his hand in a steady rhythm even in their new position, but now that he sees Harry’s face, he can tell that he is no less affected. He is biting his bottom lip, still red and swollen from earlier and his cheeks are flushed, sweat pearling down his forehead and Louis doesn’t know how he can still sound so composed when he speaks.
“You’d look so beautiful.” His left arm is tight around Louis’ shoulders, inching their faces closer and Louis’s mouth falls open to the quiet gasps that are punched out of him repeatedly. His head is swimming, and his mind feels like it’s melting. “So beautiful with cornflowers in your hair. I should take you, once it’s warmer and –”
Louis seizes up then, catching Harry’s lips heatedly, successfully cutting him off. He isn’t certain just yet where this is even heading, but hearing Harry say something like that terrifies Louis more than anything. He’s happily given his body to Harry, but Louis doesn’t know how well he’d bode without his heart.
Later, Louis watches Harry walk around the bedroom to light some candles, orange glow beginning to flicker over his naked body as he moves and Louis listens as Harry tells him about home; about the big manor house he’d get lost in as a child, running after his older stepbrother and sister, about his mother reading to him even though his father disapproved of her coddling, about his sister getting married off to a Viscount twenty years her senior and both of them crying for weeks.
Harry talks about his father wanting him to be more like Liam, responsible and driven, already engaged to a suitable girl back home, his infatuation with one of his teachers which had resulted in him being sent to London to socialise, mingle with important people and find a girl of his own. He tells Louis about meeting Niall shortly after arriving, the bastard son of an Irish nobleman and his equally blue-blooded mistress, a breath of fresh air amongst the rather stiff and conservative upper class, and he talks about finally stepping out of the confinements set by his father, and becoming who he’s always wanted to be.
Louis knows he’s getting pulled in, more and more, and he listens as words paint an image of Harry that he won’t be able to forget again. Harry says one thing after the other and Louis has to place a firm hand above his own heart to convince himself it’s still there.
Harry says, “but I don’t think I really lived before I met you.”
By the time Louis leaves 17 Lowndes Square early Monday morning he feels so detached that running into Zayn outside Ben’s shop nearly gives him a heart attack. The pull back into reality is almost violent and Zayn’s expression is carefully blank when Louis approaches, just watching him as he goes to the back entry to let himself in. Zayn is right on his heels, but he remains quiet and Louis knows that’s not a good sign and he feels guilty, yes, but he can also feel his hackles rising because Harry had made him laugh this morning, tripping over furniture and pulling faces and then he’d made him smile and he’d been happy –
“Are you just going to stand there all day?” Louis bites out, irritated and he knows he’s not angry with Zayn, but he’s feeling weirdly unbalanced. “Or is there an actual point to you being here?”
Something flutters across Zayn’s features and Louis has not time to identify it before Zayn glares at him. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe checking you’re not bloody dead, because you’ve been gone all weekend!”
“I was,” Louis fumbles for words, but Zayn is quicker.
“It’s three now, did you know that?”
Louis blanches. “What?”
Zayn moves closer, grabs a fistful of Louis’ coat and gives him a shake. “Another bloke’s dead. No parents, no family, so guess where he used to be. ‘S like someone decided to go after people like us, all right? Cleansing the fucking streets. And then you go and disappear for days and –”
“I’m fine,” Louis cuts him off, trying to push him off, but Zayn only grips him tighter.
“How the fuck was I supposed to know that?” He shoves him again. “Where the hell have you been?”
Louis distractedly notices that Zayn doesn’t look well, pale around his nose and eyes glassy, but – “Nowhere. Not important.”
“Nowhere my arse. And don’t tell me you stayed here, because we both know it wasn’t true the first time around.”
“It’s none of your business,” Louis tries, feeling slight panic well up in his chest.
“Of course it is! Don’t fucking lie to me. I didn’t go to some fancy school, but that doesn’t mean I’m bloody stupid.”
They’re both breathing heavily now, and Zayn is still holding on to him, still gripping the lapels of his coat and the guilt is eating Louis up inside, seeing the worry in Zayn’s eyes, realising how much he’s upset him, but he just doesn’t know how he could ever explain it to him; how he could ever explain Harry.
“I don’t think you’re stupid,” he says, more quiet and less heated than before and the harsh line of Zayn’s brows eases up a little.
“Then why are you lying to me? Why can’t you just tell me what’s going on?”
“I can’t.” Louis knows it’s not the most eloquent answer and Zayn isn’t going to let it rest this time, but he still reaches for his hands, peels his fingers off his lapels and takes a step back. Zayn is still close, and Louis hopes he hasn’t realised that his clothes are clean and smell of soap, but of course Zayn tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing.
“You can’t,” he repeats flatly. “Does it have anything to do with you smelling like bloody lavender?”
He curses inwardly, but there isn’t much he can say in his defence, at least nothing that makes any sense. Louis rubs his hand over his face, eyes stinging because he’s wedged in between a rock and a hard place.
“Louis. Come on, tell me.”
Louis wants to, because this is weighing him down, but he wouldn’t know what to say. He doesn’t even understand it himself, just knows that he needs to see Harry, to be with him even if it’s just for a few hours, a few nights every week, making the most out of whatever time they have together since it’s not going to last anyway. And it’s easier if he just keeps it to himself while it lasts, Louis thinks, because he’s afraid of what Zayn might think of him if he tells him. Louis is equally afraid of saying it out loud, because it means merging the two separate lives he’s been leading and he’s been trying so hard to keep them apart.
“I really can’t,” he repeats, almost cringing at the hurt, worried expression that flashes across Zayn’s features. Louis is not ready to tell Zayn. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be.
“Fine,” Zayn says, and Louis can tell it’s not. “Be like that. But just – come home tonight, all right? Because I’m not going to spend another night imagining you lying dead in a ditch.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re not,” Zayn deadpans. “But whatever. I’m meeting Ed at Paddington Station, so we’ll come here tonight, walk home together,” and Louis recognises this as Zayn setting an ultimatum. “I’ll see you later.”
He wants to sink down and bury his face in his hands and cry, because they’ve never fought before. There isn’t much ground for fighting when they’ve actually been fighting for their lives together for so many years. “Say hello to Ed from me.”
“Sure. Bye,” and then he leaves, door falling shut behind him.
“Shit,” Louis curses into the empty room. He feels so fucking lost.
True to his words, as soon as Louis leaves the chemist’s shop, he sees Zayn and Ed on the corner of the street, Ed with his violin and bow tucked under his arm and Zayn with a bottle filled with clear liquid under his. Ed greets him with a broad smile, but Zayn only nods, making Louis’ heart sink. It doesn’t lift, not even when Ed starts to play, not even when they huddle together in their room and share the bottle of white rum Zayn nicked from God-knows-where.
Louis takes a long time to fall asleep, feeling wrong and out of place all of a sudden and he dreams of Lowndes Square covered in snow, a red trail leading up to number seventeen, but when he tries to get there, someone grabs his neck, presses down, and he startles awake, gasping for air.
For the next three days, Zayn and Ed are there when Louis gets off work and Louis knows that it’s them being concerned, it’s them taking care of each other like they’ve always done and considering that three people just like them suddenly showed up dead, it’s probably smart to stick together. But he’s starting to feel this deep ache in his bones; this indescribable yearning that almost makes him go mad during quiet intervals, early in the morning or late at night and it’s been three days, but it’s also three bloody days too long.
Louis makes one of the stupidest decisions he’s ever made on a whim when Ben lets him leave earlier than he would normally. He’s on his way to Knightsbridge without hesitation, keeping a quick pace, almost running through Hyde Park at some point, ignoring a voice in his head that’s yelling at him to turn around and get the hell home.
He feels ridiculous, he feels utterly mad, but it’s so exhilarating his pulse is racing with it.
It’s inching close to midnight when Louis sits up, sheets sliding off his shoulders and pooling in his lap. The candles are burning down slowly, throwing specks of light across the ceiling, ghost of a touch tickling his spine for a handful of moments before Louis feels the tips of Harry’s fingers pressed against his skin.
“I can’t keep spending the night here,” he says, voice barely above a whisper and he’s grateful that Harry’s hand doesn’t still, continues before Harry can speak up. “I’ll try to come over for a few hours, if you want me to, but I can’t stay. The lads are wondering where I’m disappearing to.”
“Why don’t you tell them?”
Louis huffs out a laugh, hears the sheets rustling behind him. “Tell them what exactly?”
Harry moves up behind him, hand firm on the small of his back as he noses at Louis’ neck. “That you’re staying with me.” He hooks his chin over Louis’ shoulder, pressing his chest to his back.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says, turning his head so that their foreheads touch.
“Why not?”
His honest confusion makes Louis laugh again. “That’s not something you just say out there.” He avoids Harry’s gaze, searching and heavy, because they haven’t even talked about what they’re doing, everything still undefined and changing and moving and growing. Louis thinks it would actually be easier if Harry paid him. That would give him an excuse; that would serve as a better explanation than him not having any for wanting this as much as he does.
“Not even to your friends?” Harry asks and Louis remembers Liam and Niall not even blinking twice at him, accepting his presence without questioning it, without questioning Harry. And the truth is, Louis doesn’t know how his friends would react, but what scares him more is how quickly words carry across the streets, how they sometimes spread around like dust hit by a gust of wind.
He says, “you never know who else is listening,” because that is the only way he can describe it to Harry and he seems to understand, not pressing the issue further, but leaning in, fitting their mouths together softly.
It’d be so easy to sink into him again, to throw himself forward and just fucking drown in him, shutting out the world for another night, but Louis knows he can’t keep ignoring reality, he’s gone long enough trying to do that. But he needs to be smarter about this, and he needs to appease Zayn, because Zayn will still be there once Harry’s grown tired of him.
“I need to go,” he says against Harry’s lips, reluctantly pulling back and, without thinking, nudges their noses together. It makes his chest go tight with intimacy.
“It’s late. I can call my coachman, he’ll take you home.”
Louis shakes his head. “No. As much as I appreciate the offer, I don’t think that’d be wise.”
He moves the sheets, ducks away from Harry’s grip to slide out of bed. Flexing his toes once he’s put his feet on the carpet, Louis scans the room for his clothes, haphazardly thrown across the room. It’s more effort than he’d care to admit to get dressed when he catches glimpses of Harry still lounging on the bed, a few red marks down his arms and chest, not even bothering to cover himself up.
“It’s not safe, especially not this time of night,” Harry speaks up suddenly.
Louis thinks, don’t I know it, but what he says instead is, “it never is.”
He realises he probably shouldn’t have said that when it prompts Harry to get up and walk towards him, making Louis fumble with the buttons of his shirt. Once Harry is close enough, he reaches for Louis’ twitching hands and cradles them to his chest.
“I don’t like the thought of you out there. Especially not,” and he takes a deep breath, brows furrowing and expression turning stormy suddenly, and Louis hadn’t even thought about – “I’ve heard about what’s been happening in the East End. And I can’t imagine what… I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Louis’ throat is feeling tight. Part of him wants to reclaim his hands, put some distance between their bodies. “Nothing is going to happen to me,” he insists, but now he’s caught once again and it seems like he can’t do anything right, upsetting Zayn and then worrying Harry and he needs to actively remind himself that Zayn has to be his priority in this situation.
“Scotland Yard says there’s a pattern. That someone is targeting people and –”
“And why would anyone target me?” Louis cuts in. “I’m nobody.” He leaves out that the others had essentially been nobodies as well, scarily like him in many ways.
“Well. You’re somebody to me,” Harry says, raw and honest, practically punching through Louis’ chest and squeezing his heart. “So please be safe, all right? Promise me you’ll be safe.”
He allows Harry to pull him in, press him just a bit too tightly against his chest, arms coming up to almost cage Louis against him.
“I promise,” Louis says, once again, knowing full well that that’s not really in his hands.
The others are asleep when Louis arrives home about one and a half hours later. He knows he’ll have to be up again before sunrise to make it to work on time, but he doesn’t feel tired in spite of the heaviness in his bones, and a whirl of emotions weighing down his mind. There’s still about a quarter of the bottle of white rum left and it feels like the best decision he’s made all day when Louis grabs it and climbs up to the roof, folding his legs, holding on to the chimney with one hand and the rum with the other before he takes a big swig.
The alcohol burns pleasantly on the way down his throat. Treacherous warmth starts creeping through his limbs after a couple more sips and his mind is beginning to feel fuzzy around the edges.
Louis wants to cry. He can’t even remember the last time he cried properly, but he wants to, having screwed up everything so majorly he thinks slamming his own head against the chimney until his skull cracks is a viable option to get out of this mess. It’s not like he’s ever had his life figured out, considering he’s always had to deal with whatever got thrown his way, but he doubts he’s been this lost before. He can’t continue this way, he knows that, but shutting out the boys will never be an option and stopping to see Harry is –
Louis doesn’t think he could do it. He doesn’t live under the illusion that it could possibly last (is honestly surprised it has lasted as long already). Harry is going to grow bored of him eventually, find something or someone else to focus his attention on and continue his life far out of Louis’ reach and that is all right, that’s how it is, but Louis doubts he can be the one to walk away first. It’s probably foolish of him, but he can’t do anything but allow Harry to take whatever he wants from him and hope there’ll be something left of him in the end.
If he’s lucky, maybe Harry will leave him with his heart, yet stilling to feel the heavy ache in his chest makes him wonder if it might be too late for that.
Louis empties the bottle of rum and perhaps he’s drunk, perhaps it’s everything finally catching up to him. He lets it slip from his grasp and watches numbly as it rolls down the roof, clanking loudly, and eventually falls deep, hitting the street below and shattering into many shimmering pieces.
He resists the urge to jump after it.
Louis has no clue how he made it off the roof, but when he wakes up, head throbbing, he’s lying halfway across Zayn’s legs. Sitting up with a groan, it takes a moment for everything to stop spinning and he’s kind of glad that his stomach is as empty as it is. Aiden and Ed are awake, he sees after a few seconds, Stan presumably already off to work and it seems like they’ve been waiting for him to get up.
“Everything all right, guys?” he asks, voice raspy, vision blurred.
“Zayn’s sick,” Aiden says, nodding towards him still covered in blankets on the floor and Louis spins around. “He was coughing again, and kind of feverish. We didn’t want to wake him, but he looks really bad.”
Carefully, he shifts until he’s kneeling next to Zayn and starts peeling away the thin blankets he’s used to cocoon himself in. Louis pulls them down to his hunched shoulders and he can instantly tell that really bad is a quite accurate description, unfortunately, because Zayn’s skin looks pasty and his face is hot, but the sweat covering his forehead is weirdly cold to the touch.
“He’s burning up,” Louis says, his mind chanting a chorus of no no no no. “We need to get the fever down.”
“How’re we going to do that?” Ed is by his side in a second and together they shift Zayn’s terrifyingly limp body into a more comfortable position on a thicker patch of blankets.
“I can get some cold water from the well outside the brewery,” Aiden suggests. “I’m sure Mrs. Watson will lend us a bucket or something. ‘S what my mum used to do when someone had a fever, just soak cloth in cold water and wrap it around their legs. Supposed to draw the heat out.”
“Good,” Louis nods along. “Yes, lets… lets try that.”
Aiden hurries out and Ed starts tearing up one of their thinner blankets to use. Louis crouches down, cradles Zayn’s hot face and tries to get him to wake up, but whenever his eyes flutter open his gaze goes through Louis, completely unseeing. He wants to be sick, and he wants to scream, but neither is going to help them at this point and when Aiden returns with some icy water, they quickly proceed to wrap the soaked cloths around Zayn’s legs, covering him in dry blankets to still keep him warm.
They’re completely in over their own heads, and Louis is close to panicking because Zayn isn’t waking up and he’s running late for work and he doesn’t understand, because Zayn was getting better, he was fine, Louis thought, and now he isn’t even opening his eyes and things just keep getting worse and worse.
“I need to go to work,” and it comes out desperate and broken off at the end and Ed and Aiden look at him wide-eyed and equally panicked. “Shit,” he says and he wishes he could spend the rest of the day swearing.
“We’ll stay with him,” Ed assures him. “I mean, it’ll probably be tight, but I think we got enough for now. But we really need your pay, so…”
“I know,” Louis breathes out, rubbing his face, entirely sobered up now. “Shit, I know,” and he reluctantly scrambles to his feet, heart dropping down to his ankles when he sees Zayn looking more dead than alive. “I’ll be back as soon as I can so please just – look after him, all right?”
“’Course we will, idiot,” Aiden says. “Now get out.”
He’s choking and close to sobbing when he gets to the shop, muttering apologies and almost heaving his lungs onto the floor to Ben’s feet. Louis is late, not by much but still significantly so, but Ben only tells him to ensure it won’t happen again and Louis is so grateful his shoulders sag with relief.
He is distracted all day, getting less done than he wants to and probably should, but by evening Louis doesn’t care anymore, almost runs all the way back home and finds Stan sitting with Zayn, who is still out cold. They huddle close, share some dry bread and heat up some water, keeping a cold cloth on Zayn’s forehead, trying to quench the fever.
“He needs a doctor,” Stan says in the middle of the night when Ed and Aiden are with them again, and Zayn is tossing and turning.
Louis sighs heavily. “How are we supposed to pay for a doctor?”
“No idea,” Stan answers. “But he needs one.”
“We’ll figure something out,” Louis assures them, assures himself. “We have to.”
He stays with Zayn, who slips in and out of consciousness, all Sunday, praying for him to get better, wiping sweat off his face and making sure he has some water and is comfortable. It’s all Louis can really do and it makes him angry and upset and he is terrified of Zayn not getting better. They can’t afford a doctor and they can’t afford medicine and they’ve been lucky enough to only struggle with heavy colds in the last years, so Louis doesn’t know how to make him better.
The thought crosses his mind towards the evening, when Louis is drained and exhausted. Harry would help, if he asked him to, Louis is almost certain of that. And it’s tempting, but it’s also a luxury they can’t get used to. Normally, it wouldn’t be an option and Louis refuses to admit that they need help, simply because they can’t rely on anyone but themselves.
They’ll get through it, Louis keeps telling himself. They just have to.
Zayn doesn’t get better. But at least he doesn’t get worse. By Thursday, Louis would describe his condition as stable, still not awake most of the time, not speaking a lot and the fever is still high, but he’s hanging in there, they all are. He hasn’t slept for days, not properly, he’s so exhausted that there’s a constant buzz in his head, and his joints are almost churning and he has no idea how he’s supposed to make it through the week and he –
He just needs to see Harry, for a little while, soak up something nice and pleasant before worrying for the rest of the week. Most of all, he needs distraction, for a few hours, although he knows he should be getting home as quickly as he can. So he heads South, guilt weighing him down heavily, but it’s almost immediately lifted and forgotten when the old butler (Louis still doesn’t know his name) opens the door and over his shoulder, he can see Harry coming down the stairs.
“You haven’t smiled in a while,” Harry tells him a while later. He’s still leaning against the headboard of his bed, sheets crumpled in his lap, pale chest so surreally perfect even in the dark that Louis can’t help but linger for a moment, fingers pausing from buttoning his shirt.
He could give a spiteful answer. He could just gesture around this room and point at things and tell Harry Well what the hell do I have to smile about, but he knows he’s being cynical, and harsh, that Harry is genuinely concerned and that somehow makes the bitter feeling in his gut even worse. He decides to go for the truth; doesn’t matter anyway.
“My best mate’s sick. Has been for a while.”
Harry blinks. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Louis sighs and turns his attention back to the button stand of his shirt. “Why would I? It’s got nothing to do with you.”
He can’t see the hurt expression briefly flickering across Harry’s face, but he can hear in his voice that he’s upset him. “Christ, Louis, I – you need to tell me those things, I can help. I want to help.”
“Well, I don’t want your help,” he says without turning around. “I don’t need it either. I’ve managed just fine before and I’ll manage after –”
He bites his lip. It goes eerily quiet in the room, like all air has instantly been sucked out of it. Louis braces his shoulders, swallows thickly, feels cold despite the fact that Harry’s house is always unnaturally warm in comparison to any other place he’s ever been.
“So that’s how it is to you?” Harry asks suddenly and his voice sounds flat, almost like – as if he’s accusing Louis for being realistic and viewing this thing, whatever it is, as something that will not last simply because it can’t.
“It is what it is,” Louis replies, reaching for the coat he’d thrown over a ridiculously lavish armchair. “What do you want me to say? Of course it’s going to end eventually. I’m not some mistress you can put in a cottage in the countryside; you can’t pretend that I’m someone I’m not and prance along in public with me on your arm. I know it; you don’t need to pretend this is anything it’s not. I’m not fragile.”
“I’m not pretending.”
“You are,” he exclaims louder than he should and it feels strange, because his shirt is hanging off his shoulders and his feet are bare and Harry is still naked in his bed. “Where did you think this was going to go? That I would meet your friends and you’d meet mine and we’d all live happily ever after? Because that isn’t happening. Because we’re not the same.”
Harry is sliding out of bed now and, thankfully, tying a sheet around his waist. “Maybe we’re not the same but that doesn’t mean we’re not equals in this.”
Louis doesn’t mean to snap and he doesn’t mean to be harsh, but he feels cornered and uncertain and the pressure of the last days is about to make him crack. “Don’t be so naïve.”
And now Harry looks properly upset, almost angry and Louis’ heart sinks and he thinks this can’t be it, please don’t let it be it. “Perhaps I am. But I know how I feel and I know what I want. And I’m not afraid of going after it.”
Louis bites down on his lip, harshly, thinks he might taste blood. “I can’t talk about this right now.”
He moves back as Harry moves closer and Louis thinks he pushes him away when Harry reaches for him, but then he doesn’t, because suddenly they’re kissing and Harry is throwing his entire body into it. And it feels so different all of a sudden. Before, even their most heated kisses had been indescribably sweet and gentle and maybe they’d both been slightly scared to scare the other away. It’s all off the table now, it seems, because Harry is relentless when he presses even closer, not giving Louis any space, and he’s not about to just let him, not when Louis is still feeling like all his nerves are laying bare. So he pushes back with equal measure, brings his hands up to Harry’s hair and yanks like he hasn’t dared before.
Harry gasps into his mouth and Louis gains and inch, and then another, and then it’s like an even field, a giving and taking in equal measures and Louis aches with how much he wants this, aches with how much he is not willing to give this up and he wants to hate Harry for being able to say it and show it.
“We don’t need to talk about it now,” Harry says against his lips and there will be bruises on his hips from how hard Harry is holding on to them. “But this is you and I – us. And we’ll figure out the rest.”
Louis closes his eyes, breathes in and out like he hasn’t in awhile. “Why are you like this?” he asks, not really needing an answer, because he can’t wrap his head around this. “How can you be so…” and he trails off, because there aren’t any words to describe Harry, nothing that would do him justice.
“I just want to be with you,” Harry says effortlessly. “But lets forget about this for now and focus on helping your friend. That part isn’t about you or me, and it wouldn’t be fair. He probably needs a doctor, and I happen to know one, so let me do this, all right?”
This is it. Louis knows that this is his two worlds finally colliding and who knows what the outcome will be, but he needs to swallow it all down, because the chances of Zayn not getting better or even worse are far too high and he needs to swallow his goddamn pride and accept help when offered if it means helping Zayn. And if Zayn decides to hate him for this afterwards, at least he’ll be alive to do it.
“All right,” he says and like strings being cut, he falls forward against Harry’s chest, feeling close to passing out. “So how are we going to do this?”
Louis has no clue how Niall becomes part of the picture, but suddenly he’s there, waiting outside with a carriage and a sturdy coachman he calls Paul and they’re tumbling into the cabin, Louis without a coat and Harry with his shirt still half unbuttoned. Niall raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t comment on their state any further, which Louis is grateful for. He’s clinging to Harry’s hand like a lifeline, worried he’s going to throw up any second as they start to move, hooves thundering over cobbled streets, getting jostled around because they’re going so fast. Louis tries to keep his intakes of air steady, but he’s starting to feel the effect of it all, the tension and the panic and he feels so stupid for not having gone to Harry sooner.
“Y’all right, mate?” Niall’s voice cuts through the tense silence and Louis looks up at him sitting on the opposite side.
Louis wants to say yes, but nothing comes out and his throat is closing up. He things he’s about to choke on his own tongue when Harry places a calming hand on his neck and makes him lean forward a little. “Breathe, love. In and out. He’ll be fine, it will all be fine.” Harry’s thumb is rubbing in circles, grounding, giving him a sensation to focus on. “Niall is going to jump out and wake Nick, and we’re going to get Zayn and then we’re all meeting back at the house.”
“Christ,” is all Louis manages and he must be crushing Harry’s hand at this point, but he doesn’t flinch away, squeezes back and lets him hold on.
They come to a halt after a while, but Louis has no grasp of the time. Niall gets out with a wave and they head east, quiet once again, but Louis’ head starts to clear and his mind is beginning to work properly again.
“We can stop near St. Matthew’s Church. ‘S not far from there, I’ll get him and meet you there.”
Harry nods and knocks on the little window opening up to the driver’s seat to pass it on. It feels like five seconds and five hours all the same before they stop for a second time and Louis nearly trips in his haste to get out. Harry is on his heels, but Louis stops him with a hand to his chest when he’s about to get out of the carriage.
“I’ll go alone,” he says, thinking of Harry’s big, lavish house and his own cupboard-like room with the old blankets and broken windows and he’s not embarrassed, but it’s his, it’s theirs, and he doesn’t think he’s ready to share that with Harry. “It’s not far, I’ll be quicker on my own.”
He is quicker, because Louis knows how to navigate through these streets better than anything, learned all the secret shortcuts early on and even pushed to the brink, he’s fast and this area is as familiar as the inside pocket of his coat. The streets are deserted and it’s unusually quiet but Louis pays no mind to that, only focuses on getting to the familiar, shabby building with the crooked door and cracks down the side and he pushes inside, runs up the stairs taking two at a time before bursting into their room.
Louis just manages to get a hold of the doorknob to stop it from crashing into the wall and he finds himself face to face with Stan, sitting on the floor next to Zayn, who is squirming like he’s on fire.
“What on Earth,” Stan starts, but Louis is already on Zayn’s other side, tucking the blankets around his body, cutting him off.
“I need you to not ask any questions, all right?” he asks, quickly glancing at Stan’s dumbstruck face, still holding a dripping cloth in his hand.
“Louis, what –”
“No questions,” Louis repeats, trying to get Zayn to sit up, but he’s like a sack of potatoes, limp and heavy. “Please. Just help me get him up and out, now.”
“Sure, sure,” Stan says after a second of stunned silence, thankfully quickly coming to it, quickly helping Louis to gather Zayn up in his arms, taking half his too-close-to-dead weight and they’re surprisingly efficient in getting him out the door and down the stairs.
“To the left,” he orders Stan, holding on tighter to Zayn’s upper body, adjusting his grip as they turn the corner and he’s burning so hot it’s uncomfortable to the touch. Louis swallows the emotions welling up his chest and he hopes they’re not going to run into anyone who’s likely to babble it about.
“Where the hell are we going?” Stan hisses and they’re already close, just one more turn, just one more road.
“Taking him to a doctor.”
Louis can see the carriage, Paul’s large form at the side of it. He meets them halfway, takes Zayn from them like he’s weighing nothing at all, and Louis finds it hard to loosen his grip, keeps holding on to Zayn’s clammy hand poking out of his cocoon of blankets. Harry is here, opening the door and they’re quick to get Zayn onto the seat and he’s holding him there while Louis turns around to face Stan, who’s looking shaken and confused, eyes flickering from Harry over Paul to Louis and then back again.
“Lou –”
“Please,” and Louis knows he’s practically begging at this point. “Please don’t ask me to explain. Just tell Ed and Aiden that we’re good, all right? That he needed a doctor and I took him to one.”
Stan looks at him with wide eyes. “I don’t understand.”
“Please.” It’s his last attempt, but finally Stan’s shoulder sag and he shrugs weakly once, biting his lip, and it stings because it’s always been them, and now he’s leaving Stan behind without a proper explanation. “I’m sorry.”
Then he climbs into the cabin and closes the door.
***
to be continued.
Chapter 4: IV.
Summary:
“Do you know that feeling of finding something you thought you’d lost?” He doesn’t wait for Louis to answer. “Because that’s how it felt, the only way I can describe it. Like I’d been looking for you all my life.”
Notes:
WARNINGS for this chapter: - Severe illness and emotional distress
Disclaimer: I do not own, nor do I know the people featured in this story. Their characterization is based on my personal perception of them and I do not claim that this is the truth. Please respect the Fourth Wall.
A/N: So. I've kinda had a shit week. And getting this up is making me feel at least slightly accomplished, so I hope you enjoy this chapter. Thank you to Brit, as always, for listening and indulging me when I get weird about things, and also a very very big thanks to M, D, K and R for being my rocks and keeping me sane during the final stages of my Master.
Also, due to a million deadlines and a mountain of work that's the size of Mount Everest, I will probably not be able to get the next chapter up next week. I'll try and give my best, but I can't promise anything. See my tumblr for updates. Ta!
Chapter Text
CHAPTER IV.
“Write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured.”
Emily Dickinson
***
The entire house is alive with a quiet buzz. Louis’ always found it strange how all the people working for Harry seem to be one with the walls, always there but unnoticeable, and when Paul carries Zayn inside, up one flight of stairs with Louis and Harry on his heels, a small bedroom is already prepared, the same girl that led Louis into the bathroom during his first visit bringing a pile of blankets. Paul sets Zayn down and Louis climbs onto the bed without a second thought, pulling the duvet around Zayn’s shoulders, making sure his head is settled comfortably on top of the pillow. He brushes wet strands of hair off of Zayn’s glistening forehead, wipes his thumb along his temple and says another silent prayer.
They were fighting. It’s been eating at Louis’ insides all week, the fact that he’d been lying to Zayn, hiding things, worrying him without giving a damn. If their positions had been reversed, Louis is pretty sure he would have thrown a tantrum and it makes it all worse, Zayn not being happy with it but accepting Louis keeping things from him because he’d trusted him. By now Louis is relatively sure that Zayn must have picked up on something being up much earlier than he’d let on, most likely waiting for Louis to come and talk to him.
Louis can’t even apologise to him. He can’t do anything to make this better.
He’s so entirely focused on Zayn that he only belatedly registers that Niall is back, rushing into the room followed by someone in a ridiculously patterned coat, who Louis assumes to be the doctor, although he does not look like one.
“Nice hair, Nicholas,” he hears Harry say, not having caught up with the situation just yet.
The doctor – Nicholas? – sets the bag he’s carrying down with a heavy thud, shrugging off his coat, revealing a crinkled shirt that he’s already rolling up at the cuffs. “You had me dragged out of bed in the middle of the night, Harold. You do not get to mock the hair.”
“You weren’t busy then?”
It earns Harry a pointed glare. “Shut up and get out.”
Louis is still clinging to Zayn, but he feels Harry stepping up, placing hands on his shoulders. “Come on,” he says, softly prying Louis’ hands off Zayn’s arm. “We’ve done enough, now let Nick do what he can.”
“I’m staying.” Louis wants to shrug Harry off, but his limbs are heavy and he’s out of strength and Harry pulls him off the bed and to his feet like he weighs nothing at all. He doesn’t want to leave Zayn alone with someone he doesn’t know and he feels ill just leaving his side, but he’s dead on his feet and Harry is firm and gently ushering him away from the bed and towards the door being held open by Niall. Before it’s even properly registered with him, Louis is in an adjoining sitting room and about to collapse.
Niall busies himself in the corner, glasses clanking and a few short, gurgling noises reach Louis’ ears, yet suddenly he can’t think, he can’t focus, can barely sense his body as he gets guided to a chair and pushed down. Instantly, his hands go up to grab the armrests, solid wood weirdly reassuring beneath his trembling hands. His vision is blurred, blackening out towards the corners. Harry is crouched down in front of him, but Louis’ glance can’t settle on him, flickering about as if he were trying to keep up with his pulse. Only some moments later, there is a glass underneath his nose, smelling of strong liquor, and Louis grabs it, gulps it down without hesitating. It’s whisky, and it burns running down his throat, almost causing Louis to cough it back up, but he wills it down, tries to cling to the burn of it, tickling his senses awake. Once his glass is empty, Niall takes it, fills it again, and Louis swallows it just as quickly. His head is starting to swim, his arms and legs are shaking and Harry pries the glass out of his hand, sets it down on the table with a clank that echoes too loudly in the room.
He feels Harry’s warm hand on his cheek, thumb stroking softly over his clammy skin, but he is still unable to focus his eyes, can’t seem to get his mind to stop reeling and he keeps thinking about the burning sensation of Zayn’s hot skin against his, about his limp body and shallow breaths and Louis thinks he might throw up.
Harry’s fingers remain tracing over his face for another handful of moment in an obvious attempt to calm him, but it isn’t working. Louis tries to let it, tries to look at Harry, yet his own heartbeat is so painful and heavy that it seems to punch his glance into a new direction every fraction of a second, barely registers when Harry lets go and gets out and speaks to Niall in his peripheral vision.
There are sounds, quiet noises that perhaps reach his ears but don’t travel any farther than that and Louis lifts his hands, presses them to his temples and squeezes, as if that could hold everything together. He applies pressure until it hurts, until a pair of hands (not Harry’s, it’s frightening how well he knows them by now) encircles his wrists and pulls his arms away. More words, entirely disjointed and he still can’t understand, then there’s a pat to his cheek, then another, and Niall’s face becomes sharper.
“Harry?” Louis breathes before he can stop himself and Niall’s lips twitch into a smile like he can’t help himself.
“He’ll be back in a minute. You want another drink?”
Louis doesn’t know, he just – “I need to –”
Niall keeps holding his head, not allowing him to look anywhere but at him and it’s weirdly grounding. “You don’t need to do anything, mate. Nick can be a bit of a prick, but he knows what he’s doing. Your friend will be fine. Can’t have you passing out as well, though.”
He tries to breathe steadily, but Louis still feels dizzy. It’s as if his insides were trying to climb up his throat. “I don’t feel so good.”
“You don’t look so good, either,” Niall says, still smiling. He doesn’t seem to ever stop smiling. Louis finds it oddly comforting. “Don’t think I’m supposed to see your veins. Or your bones. We’ve got a lot of coddling up to do, huh? Should bring you some of me nan’s pork pies, they’ve got more fat than what’s on the actual pig, you know? They do make you feel sick sometimes, but they’re so much better than the ones you get at Borough Market or Covent Garden,” and he goes off, talks about pies and stews and suddenly something else.
Louis doesn’t follow, head not up to speed, but he lets Niall’s voice wash over him until he’s almost boneless in his seat, more asleep than awake and so utterly drained that his bones are starting to ache. He is about to drift off, Niall still framing his face, holding it steady, when the door quietly groans in its hinges, quick steps approaching and Harry is back, taking Niall’s space, taking hold of Louis’ shoulders.
“Louis?” Harry addresses him, then waits until their gazes lock. “Can you get up for me?”
Louis doubts he can and he doesn’t particularly want to either, but he can’t even shake his head at this point and before he can do or say anything else, Harry has hauled him to his feet. They sway and stumble, because Louis can’t quite feel his legs at first, but he regains his footing, one arm draped over Harry’s shoulder, Harry’s arm around his waist to support him as they make their way out into the hallway.
“How’s Zayn?”
Harry manoeuvres them around a corner and towards the staircase that looks very daunting in the semi-dark, steep and challenging considering Louis’ lack of control over his limbs. “Nick is still with him. He will let us know if anything happens, but I think he needs a bit of time first.”
They go down the carpeted staircase, incredibly slowly, and the house is so quiet and dark, only a few dimmed lights here and there drawing long shadows that make Louis wonder if he’s asleep and dreaming, slipping in and out of consciousness. The stairs creak and groan beneath their weight, drawn out like distant wailing, as if ghosts were hovering in the cracks, calling out to him, luring him away. Louis’ breath stutters as something in his chest clenches unpleasantly and he grabs Harry’s hand that’s resting on his hip like an anchor.
He doesn’t know where they’re going, at first, Harry pushing through two doors until Louis finds himself standing in the bathroom he was lead to on his first visit. He remembers the dark tiles and the big, bronze tub that’s once again filled to the brim with steaming water. The steam has risen to the ceiling, like fog clogging the streets of London and there’s a strange smell in the air, smoky and spicy, like incense. There are only two candles lit, not enough to illuminate every corner of the room and Harry is barely more than a silhouette when he stands in front of him, pressing his lips to Louis’ cheek once, hands working on the buttons of his shirt.
“You need to warm up.” Harry’s voice is just above a whisper, almost getting lost in the thick air. “You’re still shaking. Nick says you are most likely in shock.”
He talks slowly, but Louis still has trouble understanding everything he says. Harry slides his shirt down his arms, carefully undresses him like he has so many times by now, yet without hurry, being so devastatingly gentle that Louis feels raw and exposed with the overwhelming intimacy of the situation. His clothes are on the floor and Harry brushes his hair away from his face, sleeves rolled up and muscles of his forearms flexing slightly. He moves closer to the tub, running his hands along Louis’ waist and guiding him to step into it.
Louis’ legs give out almost immediately and the water sloshes around his neck before he can do as much as blink. It’s hot, burning against his overly cold skin and Louis hisses, heat engulfing him so suddenly and completely and unfamiliarly that he’s disoriented or a moment before his hands find the edge of the tub and hold on. His breath catches in his and he swallows a mouthful of scented bathwater, coughing loudly and Harry is there like he always seems to be, arm around Louis’ chest and getting his entire sleeve soaked in the process.
“Deep breaths, Lou, come one.” He presses his fingers into Louis’ shoulder and Louis feels his body relax seemingly out of nowhere, going lax and tension rolling off of his shoulders as Harry pulls him back, head lolling back to rest on the edge of the tub. “That’s it.”
Louis exhales. His fingers loosen their grip and it’s like a knot pulled open, his body untangling and starting to float. The painful tightness in his chest dissipates a little and his ribcage stops hurting like it’s getting crushed. Harry’s arm retreats and he starts to move away, floor creaking as he shifts his weight and –
“Stay.”
He’s surprised at his fingers suddenly closing around Harry’s wrist, at this one word spilling from his lips without a second thought. For one mortifyingly long moment, Harry just hovers without movement, without a sound. Louis can’t breathe, can’t think, but then he moves back in, clothes rustling as he, Louis assumes, settles on the floor next to the tub, fingers entangling with Louis’. He feels Harry’s hair against the bare skin of his forearm and it’s not particularly comfortable with their arms tangled towards each other, but Louis doesn’t dare shifting even a single muscle.
Something has changed. Louis isn’t sure at what point during this ridiculous night this shift happened, but it’s different, even though he can’t quite put his finger on it. Perhaps it happened when he decided to see Harry against his better judgement; perhaps it was when he’d seen him, or when they’d fought briefly and thrown words at each other, or when Harry had made sure that Zayn would get help. Maybe it happened just a moment ago. It doesn’t matter; at least Louis doesn’t think it does, because he can feel it as solidly as Harry’s hand in his.
He watches the candlelight flickering over the shivering surface of the water, fully encompassed by the spicy smell that is now filling the room entirely. Louis feels lightheaded, drunk and drugged and sharp at the same time, suspended between sleep and consciousness, the subtle movement of Harry’s fingers sliding against his almost hypnotic.
“I’m sorry.” His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. Louis is surprised he can move it at all. “For what I said tonight. For not telling you. For a lot of things. But I don’t know how to do any of this. And I don’t understand it either.” The only sign that Harry has heard him is the tightening of his grip around Louis’ fingers, squeezing them gently, quietly reassuring him with his presence. “I don’t know what to do, and I don’t know what to think and it – it terrifies me, because it’s completely out of my control and when that happens out there you die.” The words just pour out of his mouth like the Thames flooding the Southern banks in autumn. He wonders if it’s easier now that he doesn’t have to look at Harry, doesn’t feel like Harry is peeling away layer after layer to peer into his very soul. “I don’t understand,” he repeats. “I just don’t understand why you’re being like this, what you even want with me, because I’m…”
I’m so fucking broken, he thinks, heart giving off a painful twist, shards pressing through his ribs. The water sloshes against the edges of the tub as Louis moves his arm to press his palm to his chest, trying to keep it all inside. He almost expect something sharp to come bursting out of his ribcage.
Louis has no idea what to do with himself other than sink deep into the water and hold his breath until he passes out and drowns. Zayn is somewhere upstairs, struggling to breathe and struggling to stay alive and yet he is the one fraying around the edges, slowly falling apart, weak and pathetic and lost. He can’t make things better.
“The first time I saw you,” Harry suddenly speaks up, pulling Louis’ out of his reverie, “you were standing at the corner of Westminster Abbey. It was early and hardly anyone was on the street. You were reading, and your lips kept twitching and pursing, like you were trying not to scoff at whatever was written there and I couldn’t stop looking at you.” He laughs quietly to himself and Louis refrains just barely from holding his breath. “You were so fascinating, even from afar and I…” and Harry trails off, pauses for a long while, their hands so tightly intertwined by now it’s starting to hurt.
“Do you know that feeling of finding something you thought you’d lost?” He doesn’t wait for Louis to answer. “Because that’s how it felt, the only way I can describe it. Like I’d been looking for you all my life.”
Louis swallows thickly, chest and throat and eyes burning and he grips Harry’s hand so tightly his nails are digging into his skin, completely overwhelmed and incredulous. “Harry,” he starts, but he can’t get anything else out.
“I don’t understand it either,” Harry goes on. “But we don’t have to, I don’t think. There are things that don’t make sense. They just… happen.” He laughs again, another small huff and Louis can’t see his face, but he knows exactly what expression he’d find on it. “I’m scared too. Because if you’re afraid of losing control, then I never had any to begin with.”
They sit in silence, holding on to each other, until the bath water is almost cold. Louis doesn’t want to let go and neither does Harry, it seems, perhaps afraid of shattering the delicate bond they’ve started to weave. Harry’s words are still floating around Louis’ head when there is a soft knock on the door and it’s pushed open only a second later. Louis languidly turns his head to face it, feeling more in trance than awake. It’s Nick who’s standing on the threshold and he doesn’t bat an eyelid at Louis in the tub, or Harry sitting on the floor beside it, or at their joined hands.
“He has pneumonia,” he says with a sober but strained voice and leaves Louis no time to panic. “A severe case, but the fever has gone down slightly and there is only so much herbs will do. He needs to stay warm and he needs rest. I’ve instructed the maids and I’ll be back some time this afternoon to check on him.”
Louis wants to cry with relief, and he is glad that he is too exhausted to do that. “Thank you.” His voice is telling enough.
Nick gives him a short not and an unexpectedly soft smile. “Not for this. But you two should get some rest as well. I’ll see you later. Harry.”
“Thank you, Nick,” Harry says and then the door swings shut.
The first time Louis blinks awake, he’s lying a foot apart from Zayn, who’s still twitching, shifting and squirming like his skin is on fire. The maid with the ginger hair is sitting on a chair by the bed, wringing out a wet cloth and when Louis turns, he sees that Harry is sitting on the other side of the bed, fast asleep, crouched in an armchair. He looks soft and beautiful. The light is dimmed, flickering, and he’s pulled back under before another thought can occur to him.
When Louis wakes up again, Zayn isn’t next to him. Panic grips him tightly and he sits up so quickly his head spins and his vision blacks out. Blindly, he tears the sheets away from his body, but they twist around his legs and he rolls off the mattress, lands on the carpet with a thud and quiet groan. His brain is still fuzzy; spots of colour and blurred outlines only slowly appearing in his line of vision and his limbs feel heavy like blocks of concrete have replaced his bones.
Louis turns his head, cheek rubbing over the thick carpet that thankfully cushioned his fall and he tries to get his hands up to his shoulders to push off the floor, to get up, because his concrete spine is pressing down on his lungs and it’s getting hard to breathe. His palms push against the carpet and Louis barely manages to lift his body more than a few inches before he slips, breath coming out harsh. He feels sweat starting to collect at the back of his neck, a flush spreading across his face, making him feel too warm and uncomfortable like he’s lying out in the sun without water and his bloody concrete limbs.
He opens his mouth, not knowing whether it’s to breath or just fucking scream, and there is a door creaking and someone calling his name and footsteps that make the ground vibrate beneath his body. Louis still can’t see properly and he can’t bloody think, but he knows the hands reaching for him and gently turning him over onto his back. Harry is an actual beacon of light in the line of his gaze, bright and sharp and crowding away the dark that’s framing his eyes. A thumb brushing across his cheek, an arm slipping around his shoulder and for a blissful moment Louis feels weightless, then he is back on the bed, mattress giving in slightly underneath his weight.
Harry collects the blankets and as he drapes them over him, Louis starts to come back to it. He still feels tired and exhausted like he’s spent days running through the cold streets of London, but he can make out his surroundings again, Harry’s bedroom in fact, drenched in light that floods in through the panelled windows. Dust particles dance through the rays, broken apart by Harry leaning forward to secure a thick quilt around Louis’ shoulders.
“Zayn?” is all he manages to croak, his body shutting down, not even managing to lift his head anymore. Louis doesn’t know if pneumonia is contagious, but then again, he could’ve caught anything from anyone in the last couple of days. Illnesses tend to spread through East London like the Great Fire of 1666.
“Nick is with him again,” and Harry’s voice sounds like it has to permeate a wall of wadding to reach his ears. Louis is fighting to keep his eyes opened. “His fever hasn’t gone down any further, but Nick says he is in relatively stable condition.” Another touch, another small thread tying him to consciousness, too tired to even feel relieved after that short burst of adrenaline. “You feel a bit warm, too,” Harry continues with a crease in his brows. “I’ll fetch him, but you should sleep, all right? You need to – I couldn’t –”
Louis isn’t awake to hear him finish.
As of late, Louis’ dreams have been a strange array of images. A quick succession of blurred contours and mingled sounds and unfamiliar faces that remain imprinted onto his mind even when he opens his eyes again. They don’t make sense, but they seem so real that he simply cannot forget about any of them, trying to remember scenes from his past, yet nothing matches up. His memory is an incomplete puzzle and many pieces are missing, though perhaps they weren’t ever there in the first place.
He’s hiding in the hallway, crouched behind a wooden chest where his mother keeps their shoes. It’s dark safe for the sliver of light that comes from the sitting room where the door is slightly ajar. Louis can hear voices from inside, voices deep and prominent but far enough for him not to understand more than a word here and there. His feet are bare and his nightshirt is riding up his thighs, goosebumps spreading all over, but he’s so achingly curious, getting sent to bed far earlier than usual, ushered out of the kitchen with his tea still sloshing around in his cup and he’d heard heavy footsteps and the rustling of coats minutes after his mother had blown out the candle on his bedside table.
It’s happened before and Louis has never even seen the people that sit with his father while his mother busies herself in the kitchen and it’s so strange that they only meet when it’s dark and he’s never allowed to greet them like other guests. So Louis is determined to stay awake, to listen and maybe learn their names, see their faces, understand what they’re doing even though his father would scold him were he to find Louis hiding in the dark.
He tries to peek around the chest and through the gap left by the door, but all he can see is a small part of the back of a chair, an elbow and a wooden walking cane. There’s an animal’s head on top of it, but Louis can’t tell what it is.
The light is constantly flickering, conversation becoming more heated as voices are raised, only disrupted by the clinking of porcelain coming from the kitchen. Louis is able to pick up the odd word now, but as soon as the syllables have moved past his ears they’re forgotten again, making his head spin, his mind feeling like it’s filled with cotton wadding. He keeps his breath shallow, presses his body against solid wood, and squeezes his eyes shut – listens.
“- it wouldn’t turn out in anyone’s favour –”
Something is forcefully set onto a hard surface. The loud clank makes Louis flinch. Light flutters behind his eyelids.
“- mad if you think this can –”
Chairs scraping over the wooden floor. A voice, poignant and harsh, echoing in his head.
“- can’t back out now that –”
Commotion, and he scrambles to his feet, the hallway starting to spin around him.
“- a goddamn coward –”
Louis trips over his own feet and falls, his stomach swooping and his surrounding are turned upside down and then twisted, his head jostled and spun until it all suddenly stops and he’s lying on his back. He feels soft sheets beneath his fingertips when his hands twitch. The smell of lavender reaches his nose.
“- not ill, per se, just… malnourished and exhausted. Not that that is particularly surprising considering the circumstances.”
“But he’s going to be all right, isn’t he?” Harry’s voice is a relief. Louis wants to open his eyes, but he still hasn’t regained control over his body. The duvet feels like it’s weighing a ton. His throat itches.
“For now.”
“Nick…”
He’s starting to remember now, Harry talking about fetching the doctor because he… well, Louis doesn’t remember that particular aspect. He recalls falling asleep and waking up and slipping in and out of consciousness and images, more and more. His mind is in so much disarray it almost hurts.
“What would you like me to say, Harold?” Nick says. His voice is quiet and soft, and if Louis knew him any better he might’ve described it as gentle. “His friend and him, they will be all right as long as they get rest, keep warm, regain their strength. A week or two of staying here would fulfil that, but once he goes back to his life, it will all lead up to the exact same thing. You know what it’s like on the streets. You picked him off of them.”
“It isn’t –”
“Like that?” Nick interrupts Harry. Louis sees light through the skin of his eyelids, lashes tickling his cheeks as they start to flutter open. “I know, Harry. I know you care. But I watch dozens of people like him die every week at the hospital, and your big heart isn’t going to save him.”
It’s too quiet after that. I don’t need saving, Louis wants to say, but his tongue feels like sandpaper. He fists the sheets and the noise is loud in the silent room. It takes a surprising amount of strength for Louis to manage to roll to his side, to use his hands to slowly move his body up the pillows until his back is relatively propped up. It’s another strenuous effort to open his eyes and keep his head steady as he blinks against the light, and he realises that Harry and Nick are standing at the foot of the bed, gazes turned on him. It takes another second before Harry is rushing to his side, putting a supporting hand on his shoulder because Louis can barely keep his body upright. He wants to throw up.
“How are you feeling?” Harry asks, pushing damp strands of hair off of Louis’ forehead.
“Like I got run over by a carriage,” Louis replies honestly, barely recognising his voice.
Harry smiles at him, but it’s watery and it sends an unpleasant curl through Louis’ belly. Without saying a word, Harry leans forward, bends down slightly and reaches around Louis’ shoulder, pressing him tightly to his chest. Louis swallows, body almost going limp in Harry’s arms, and he catches Nick’s eyes over Harry’s shoulder. The look he gives Louis is understanding, but also indescribably dismal, and it makes Louis’ eyes sting as he lets Harry hold him for as long as he wants.
Louis is perfectly aware that Harry’s big heart cannot save him. He’s terrified he might end up breaking it instead.
Harry watches him like a hawk as he manages to gulp down a couple of spoons of stew. It’s rich and heavy, big chunks of potato and carrot and some sort of meat that Louis can’t identify, because he can’t even remember the last time he’d had any. His stomach starts to stretch painfully after not even half the bowl, not used to a proper meal anymore, and he has to lie down again, feeling nauseous and off-kilter. His eyes are already starting to droop when Harry slips into the bed behind him and presses against his back, arms coming around to encircle him. Right before he drifts off, he feels Harry place his palm flat on his chest, right above his heart, as if to make sure that it’s still beating.
It takes another day until Louis is steady on his feet again. He stays with Zayn from then on, who is still more unconscious than awake most of the time and even when he opens his eyes for brief periods, he’s never lucid. Louis sits by his bed and holds his clammy hands through fever dreams, keeps the cloth on his forehead damp and cool and fights off fatigue and hunger and thirst so long that Harry gives up on coaxing him out of the room, opting to stay as well, having a maid fetch bread and stew and tea that Louis barely manages to stomach. He doesn’t sleep much and never for more than an hour or two, but he always wakes up on the bed next to Zayn, covered by a warm blanket, with Harry sitting by his side.
Nick stops by again, but there is not much he can do at this point and it’s a waiting game that has Louis’ insides in knots and it makes his chest rigid and tight, makes him feel physically ill again. There are so many things to worry about. He can’t even begin to think about what losing Zayn would do to him, and there’s also the others, and his job, and always fucking money that they don’t have. Louis hopes that Stan told Aiden and Ed, hopes that Ed went to see Ben on his behalf, hopes that they are getting by as long as Zayn has to be his priority.
It’s been close to a week when Zayn’s fever finally drops. Louis is startled out of his light sleep by the rustling of sheets and a quiet, raspy groan. He blinks and shoots up in his chair so rapidly that his neck cracks and he scrambles forward to Zayn who is trying to sit up, digging his elbows into the mattress, palms slipping over cotton, still too weak to manage on his own. His cheek is still warmer than normal when Louis touches his hand to it, steadying Zayn’s head as he wakes without focus.
Zayn coughs and his entire body shakes with it, lungs still battered, and when he opens his eyes, his gaze remains unseeing for a handful of moments before it locks on Louis, gaining clarity.
“Oh God,” Louis says and can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of his lips. He thinks his eyes might be slightly wet already. “Zayn, how are – you’re all right. You’re fine, I’m right here.”
There’s the young maid with the red hair hovering behind him, Louis realises as he tries to prop Zayn up on the pillows, unsure whether he’s even allowed to sit up. Every breath Zayn takes sounds like he is in pain and Louis grabs the cup of water that’s sitting on the bedside table, brings it to his friend’s lips, still supporting his head. Some liquid spills down his chin, but Zayn manages to drink most of it, throat probably sore and dry and he’s been sleeping or unconscious so long he’s sure to be dehydrated.
Louis sets the cup back down and moves closer, brushes tangled strands of hair off of Zayn’s still too-warm forehead, making his eyes flutter with the movement. He still looks so pale and drained and fragile, but at least he’s looking at Louis and sees him. Louis wants to cry with relief.
“Lou,” Zayn rasps, eyes halfway closed again. It seems that just being awake is putting a strain on his body. “What’s going on?”
“You’re ill,” Louis tells him, hands still in Zayn’s hair, not ready to let go. “I didn’t know what else to do. I thought you’d – I had to make sure you’d be all right. And you will be, I promise. Go back to sleep,” he says and watches as his eyes become heavier by the second. “I’ll stay right here.”
Zayn wakes up for the second time only a few hours later, when it’s dark outside, the middle of the night really, but neither he nor Louis has a proper sleeping pattern anyway. He fluffs up one of the many pillows for him and helps him sit up against it, not fully upright, but enough to feed him some broth without spilling it. He looks slightly better already, at least Louis thinks Zayn does, still pale and weak but not as fragile anymore.
The way Zayn’s eyes start to wander as he swallows the soup makes Louis nervous. He hasn’t thought much about what he might tell Zayn, because this can’t be explained away. It’s glaringly obvious and right in his face, and Zayn is no fool. He can put two and two together and Louis sends a silent prayer to the heavens so Harry won’t walk into the room while Zayn is up. It’s inevitable, Louis figures as much, but he needs more time to prepare for this; an opportunity to come up with a story that won’t be a lie, but not the entire truth either.
They know each other so well that Louis can tell Zayn’s itching to ask questions and demand answers, even being as poorly as he is at the moment. He’s most likely not asking them yet simply because he’s waiting for Louis to tell him without prompt. It’s a level of trust Louis doesn’t know he is deserving of. He hasn’t been honest with Zayn in the past weeks and he’s still not being honest and Louis just hasn’t got a fucking clue what to do at this point; how to explain something he still has no proper explanation for. He doubts he could pass Harry off as an acquaintance.
The situation takes on a life of its own after perhaps another day or so (Louis has lost all sense of time, sleeping whenever Zayn’s unable to keep his eyes open), when Zayn has been asleep for a little under an hour and Harry slips into the room quietly, floorboards creaking beneath his feet. He’s made himself a bit rare with Louis’ sole attention on Zayn, like he doesn’t want to intrude or put Louis into a difficult position. He’s in it regardless of Harry staying away, since they don’t usually make a habit of sleeping and recuperating in posh houses that have sheets out of Egyptian silk and carpets that are worth more than Louis and Zayn will earn in their lifetime.
Harry leaves the door ajar. He’s in a three-piece suit, necktie already undone, hair and shoulders slightly damp. Rain has been pitter-pattering against the fogged up windows for hours. He smiles when he finds Louis’ attention on him, shrugging off the tight line to his shoulders as soon as Louis gets up and walks across the room towards him.
“How is he doing?” Harry asks.
“Better,” Louis says and the relief of it is still so overwhelming that he can’t but press close, feeling shaky and bare. Harry goes stiff for a second, undoubtedly surprised by Louis initiating this sort of display of affection. It doesn’t take long, though, for Harry to sigh and practically melt around Louis, arms encircling Louis’ shoulders. Louis breathes him in, throat closing up. “I think he’s getting better.”
Obviously Louis can’t be sure, but Zayn’s skin is not painfully hot to touch anymore, his breathing not as laboured, his thoughts and eyes more clear than foggy. Louis thinks it’s looking up. Finally.
“I’m glad,” Harry mutters against his hair. “What about you?”
“I’m good,” Louis replies tightly, closing his eyes for just a moment, trying to drown out everything that’s around them once again. His mind is too loud and busy and there are voices and images and he needs this to stop feeling like someone is trying to pry open his skull to peek inside. “Just a little tired.”
“I think we could all use a proper night’s sleep.” Harry’s hand trails warmly along his shoulder girdle and settles against the back of Louis’ neck. “You should come to bed tonight. Get some rest. Mairie will look after Zayn.”
“I don’t know.” He isn’t comfortable with leaving Zayn’s side for even a moment. “I want to be here when he wakes up. I don’t want him to have to wonder where I am,” because that’s what he’s done to Zayn for too long now. It feels wrong to have him wake up in a room he doesn’t know without any recollection how he even got here in the first place. Louis knows he’ll only be able to sleep through the night once Zayn is back on his feet. “I’m sorry, I –”
Harry shushes him. “Don’t apologise. I understand but – you need to get well, too.”
He leans in before Louis can reply or react. He tastes like the rain that’s been hitting grey pavements for hours, that’s running down window panes and setting a steady rhythm that’s the only noise in this room right now. Louis breathes in through his nose and parts his lips for Harry to deepen the kiss, suddenly almost starving for it, craving Harry so much that his bones start to ache. Harry’s hands are big and warm and they come around his neck to cradle his face gently, like he’s a fragile thing, easily breakable.
Harry slides their open mouths together, hot and unhurried like they have all the time in the world even though it couldn’t be further from the truth. Louis’ hands grip the damp fabric of Harry’s jacket, he feels his muscles and sinews shift as he moves minimally to encompass Louis even more. They break apart only moments later but entirely out of breath, spinning head and heat pooling in his belly and Harry presses another lingering but close-mouthed kiss to Louis’ lips before he smiles at him and steps away towards the door.
It seems as if time is being suspended when Harry moves towards the door and his glance falls over Louis’ shoulder, widening just minimally but enough to make Louis snap his head around to the bed where Zayn is lying on many pillows, buried beneath blankets. He hasn’t shifted the tiniest amount, but his eyes are open and focused despite still appearing a tad hazy and Louis’ heart jumps up his neck, throbs in his throat like it’s trying to crawl out. He throws a panicked glance over his shoulder, but there isn’t much Harry can do but nod encouragingly. Louis doubts his presence would help or be necessary but his chest hurts with tension and he feels like passing out.
Harry leaves the room but the door remains slightly ajar. Louis tries to take a deep breath but it gets stuck halfway down his throat and he’s left feeling on edge and raw as he slowly walks to the foot of the bed. Zayn still hasn’t moved, hasn’t made a single noise and he doesn’t give Louis anything, but he figures that’s only fair, since Louis hasn’t given him anything to go with either. He sits down at the edge of the mattress, digs his fingers into the duvet and scratches over the fabric. He doesn’t know what to say.
Picking at the blanket, he tries not to let his panic show on the outside, knowing full well that Zayn knows him well enough to be able to tell. Louis tries to come up with a good start to this impossible conversation, but he can’t. Words are lost, voice stuck, head barred.
Eventually, it’s Zayn who speaks up first. He moves, turning his face into the pillow to smell it pointedly. “Fucking lavender, huh?” he asks and Louis doesn’t know if he wants to cry or laugh.
“Yeah,” he breathes out, not able to meet his eyes.
Zayn’s voice is still rough and it can’t be easy for him to talk at all, but he still continues. “So this is where you’ve been disappearing to.”
It’s not a question. Louis tries to swallow the lump in his throat. “I’m so sorry,” he manages to croak out in the end, eyes burning, feeling to small for his skin. “I didn’t know – he’s just…” He trails off, simply because he cannot think of any way to explain this to Zayn. He takes a breath and cringes when he realises it sounds more like a gasp. “You wouldn’t wake up,” he continues, his mind flashing to Zayn lying lifeless on the ground, burning up, fucking dying. “I didn’t know what to bloody do but bring you here and Stan helped but he doesn’t know and now – I don’t –”
“Lou,” Zayn cuts off his rambling. He’s still lying down, too weak still to get up properly, but his eyes are alert and zoning in on him. “You know I don’t fucking care if you’re a molly.”
It’s so forward and blunt that Louis is taken aback for a moment, looking up and blinking at Zayn, words sinking in until he actually starts to comprehend the meaning. It’s perfectly possible that he gapes at Zayn like an idiot, because despite still looking worse for wear, Zayn’s lips actually twist up into a smirk.
“How did that even happen? Are you his mistress or somethin’?”
Louis guffaws and shoves at Zayn’s foot beneath the blankets. “Christ, Zayn. I’m not – I mean this isn’t… That’s not what it’s like. And I don’t even know what happened.”
Zayn gazes him curiously, eyes squinting slightly. “Then what is it like?”
He bites his lip and looks at the sheets again, heartbeat drumming loudly in his eyes, too noisy in the quiet room. From somewhere in the house, a grandfather’s clock strikes five times, indicating late afternoon. Outside the light is already fading, rain continuing to pound against the windows and running down in violent, jagged streams that mingle and separate and burst against the frames. When Louis concentrates hard enough, he can hear footsteps in the hallway, undoubtedly maids rushing around, someone walking up the stairs and a quiet voice calling out instructions. He imagines Harry sitting in his study by his desk with unopened letters, a pot of ink and quills, a soft line between his brows as he fumbles frustrated with the electric light on the ceiling. It makes his heart do a weird motion he’s sure is showing in his expression.
“I’m not sure. It’s stupid. I mean, not this, not Harry but – I don’t know what I’m doing. And I’m sorry for not telling you, but I can’t even get it right in my own head.”
“Why is it stupid?”
“Because,” and Louis swallows around whatever it is that’s clogging his throat. “It’s so surreal, isn’t it?” He nods at the room they’re finding themselves in, and means that and everything that extends beyond it. “I don’t know how it happened. It just kind of did. And it keeps spinning faster and faster and I can’t – I can’t fucking stop.”
He knows he sounds desperate and he isn’t making much sense. The smile has slipped off of Zayn’s face, brows pulled together as he regards Louis with an expression he can’t quite place.
“Does he… I mean, like – pay you?”
Louis feels his face heat up. He can’t even begin to imagine what this entire situation appears like to Zayn. He can’t blame Zayn for thinking what anyone else would be assuming if they were to discover it. If roles were reversed, Louis can’t say for sure he wouldn’t assume just the same. Nevertheless, it still leaves his mouth with a sour taste. Not because Louis entirely believes himself to be above these things. He’s sunk pretty fucking low trying to survive. They all have. But Harry’s not like that.
“He’s not like that,” he ends up saying, dropping his gaze, face still flaming. His hands twitch and he can’t seem to stop them. “And I wouldn’t – I mean, I couldn’t…”
“Do you care for him?”
Louis is so fucking grateful that Zayn doesn’t use the word love. That still weighs far too heavily. Because Louis thinks he could, eventually, might even do so right now and it’s too much. It’s too much because Zayn is asking and Louis isn’t ignorant. He’s glad Zayn doesn’t press any further when Louis can’t bring himself to answer. The sheets rustle and the bed groans quietly as Zayn sits up, then he holds out an arm.
“Give me a hug, you tosser,” Zayn says and Louis shuffles up to him with a smile, resists the urge to wrap around him tightly because he still looks too pale, too tired. But relief still rolls over Louis when he presses close and feels Zayn’s heartbeat against his chest. “What are you thinking?” Zayn continues after a few beats, voice weak and raspy, strained from even a short conversation. “I don’t want to be an ungrateful brat. Pretty sure I wouldn’t be alive without his help, but – what are you doing? What are you thinking?”
He isn’t thinking much, Louis guesses, at least nothing reasonable. They’ve always acted as each other’s conscience in a way, keeping each other morally afloat as they were forced to creep further and further into unchartered territory, as they had to do things in order to survive; things that made them feel like criminals. They’ve gone pretty far down the road, all of them, but Louis knows he takes the crown of recklessness with this. Yet it feels too good and Louis is too invested to just walk away. It’s addictive, Harry is, and it’s so liberating to not care about anything but them for at least a little while. It makes him feel defiant, and rebellious and larger than life and he doesn’t know how he’d cope without it – without Harry.
“Not much,” he admits weakly, pressing his nose against the warm, damp skin of Zayn’s neck. “And I’m so sorry, I really am so bloody sorry. I didn’t want to lie to you, but I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“I get that,” Zayn replies. “I do, and I’m not angry just – just really fucking worried, all right? I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
It’s probably ironic that he’s the one saying that in spite of having been the one close to death, not Louis. It’s painful, a cruel pressure that sits heavily on Louis’ shoulders, because the right thing to do would be to take Zayn once he’s back on his feet, leave this house and never look back. Keeping his life and Harry’s so separate had meant not having to worry about the consequences of their deeds, not thinking about any people but the two of them, but now Zayn is in the picture as well, and he’s worried and undoubtedly scared for Louis and what could happen and he feels like the most selfish arse in the entire city.
“I’m sorry,” Louis says again, because it’s all he can do at this point. He can’t promise to stop seeing Harry. He can’t really promise Zayn anything at all. “I’m so sorry for being so fucking selfish. But life is hell, and I’m so bloody exhausted and Harry – I can breathe when I’m here. And it’s not fair to you guys, but I couldn’t stop and I didn’t even want to and I… I don’t want to now.” His eyes are burning and his throat feels like he’s just swallowed a big chunk of dry bread.
“’s not about wanting, Lou. Don’t think you have much of a choice here.”
“I know it’s not going to last,” Louis admits and doing so is painful enough. He tries to push the thoughts of an inevitable goodbye to the back of his mind, but he’s not as successful as he’d like to be. Harry doesn’t see it that way, and Louis won’t be the one to remind him. “But can’t I just have this for now? Can’t he be the one good thing that happens to me?”
He can’t say anything else after that, feeling choked up and drained from putting his feelings out there when he usually likes to keep them to himself. Zayn, bless him, doesn’t press for more. They hold each other as the sun starts to sink, rain still falling relentlessly and perhaps attempting in vain to cleanse the filthy streets they will soon return to, whether they want to or not. Because as much a Louis wants to pretend otherwise, they don’t have a choice in anything.
They’ll return to the gutters, where they belong, and this house and these people and Harry will stay and fade into memory until everything is exactly the way it’s supposed to be.
It’s late when Louis untangles himself from Zayn’s hold. His head is throbbing and he’s disoriented for a moment until he smells the familiar sheets, until he hears the steady clatter of rain still hitting the panels of glass. His mind flickers to Stan and Ed and Aiden and they’re room and how there’s always water leaking through the windows, cold creeping through the cracks and with an aching in his chest he hopes they’re okay, hopes they’re hanging in there until he and Zayn can come back. Louis gets up, neck sore and body stiff. The room is dark and the entire house seems eerily quiet. Somewhere in the close distance, a clock marks every second that passes.
The floorboards groan beneath his feet, but Zayn doesn’t even twitch, out like a light and still requiring so much sleep to recover. Louis rubs at his eyes as he crosses the room and slips out into the hallway that’s just illuminated by a heavy chandelier that’s standing on a three-footed leg in the corner. It throws long shadows onto a portrait of what Louis believes to be one of Harry’s ancestors or relatives. She’s got the same dark curls, gentle bow to her lips and jaw sharp – perhaps his mother.
Louis peeks along the corridor. All the doors are closed and there’s a faint glow coming from the staircase. Once he gets closer to it, he hears quiet voices downstairs, definitely female, so he decides to head upstairs to Harry’s rooms. He almost stumbles up the stairs, legs heavy and unused and he needs a moment to catch his breath at the top, hand gripping the railing tightly, a few light spots dancing in front of his eyes. It’s dark to his right where he knows too well Harry’s bedroom lies, but there is a sliver of orange light coming from a door to his left.
Harry is seated by his desk when Louis enters his study, a crease between his brows and worrying his lower lip as his eyes skim over an unfolded letter. Louis can see dark circles beneath his eyes when he looks up and he feels guilty for being responsible for them, for making Harry stay up and sit by his bedside and Zayn’s and worrying him. But Harry only smiles at him softly as Louis closes the door and leans his back against it.
“It’s late,” Louis says, folding his hands behind his back. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”
Harry shrugs. His shirt is almost entirely unbuttoned and about to slide off his shoulder. “I tried. But I couldn’t fall asleep.” He pauses, letter still in his hands but he doesn’t pay any mind to it. “I was hoping you’d join me.”
His heart leaps at that and Louis bites his tongue to stop a smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m here.”
Harry does smile. “You are,” he says, dropping the piece of paper but making no move to stand up. “How is Zayn?”
“Getting better. And we talked so… I guess that helped too.”
“It did?”
Louis nods and pushes away from the door, Harry’s gaze glued to his every movement. “He understands why I didn’t tell him. But – I should’ve trusted him. I’ve trusted him half my life and I should have trusted him with this.” He comes to a halt by the desk and lowers his eyes to its dark surface, lifts his fingers to trail them along the polished wood, candlelight flickering over his skin. He knows Harry’s eyes are still focused on him. “He asked me if I cared about you.”
“And what did you say?” Harry asks and by now, God, Louis knows him well enough to realise that the slight tremor in the middle of this sentence means he’s unsure, non-chalance only a cover.
Louis glances at him and he doubts he will ever get used to the sight of him, doubts that he’ll ever understand how someone like Harry in all his perfection could ever spare only a single thought for someone like him. He’s never gotten lucky in his life, but Louis knows he’ll never pray for anything else if he’ll get to keep Harry for just a little longer.
“I think you can figure that out on your own,” he says and with one swift movement, he climbs onto Harry’s lap, knees digging into the cushioned seat of his chair on either side of his hips. Harry’s eyes widen in surprise and Louis smiles into the kiss he presses onto his lips. They remain frozen for just a moment, suspended in time, before melting into action. Louis curls himself over Harry’s form, taking advantage of towering over Harry in this position to dip his head back and deepen the kiss. Harry’s hands fly to his hips and his grip burns against Louis’ already overheated skin. It’s been so long since they touched each other like this and Louis aches with how much he wants him.
“Louis,” Harry gasps when they break apart for air, but he doesn’t get to continue because Louis dips right back in, surprising himself. He’s usually not the one to initiate. Harry acts and he reacts gladly, but Harry’s been so careful with him, handling like something fragile and breakable and being so considerate when Louis just wants to feel. Zayn has gotten so close to death that it just made Louis understand even more how easily, how quickly this could all be over. He could be dead tomorrow even without some madman offing orphans in Whitechapel and Louis is so done wasting time battling with his own head.
He settles heavily onto Harry’s hips and moves his own, seeking friction and relishing the feel of Harry’s arousal against his. Harry’s hands move up and down his sides, sliding underneath his shirt and making his skin crawl with pleasure and Louis fumbles blindly for the buttons on Harry’s shirt, starts to impatiently pull at them until they’re springing off, clattering onto the floor and it’s like that single action triggers something in Harry, some of Louis’ urgency and desperation bleeding over to him.
Harry’s hands still and he grips Louis tight enough to bruise. He tilts his body forward and Louis almost falls back, but then Harry stands, takes only one step and before he has caught on, Louis finds himself on the flat surface of Harry’s desk, breathing heavily and head spinning.
“Christ,” he utters, arms reaching out to find Harry’s bare shoulders, shirt hopefully discarded on the floor and he wants to sit up again, meet Harry in the middle, but Harry is already looming over him, curls a wild mess on his head and framing his face like a halo. He presses Louis to the desk with the entire weight of his upper body and Louis wants to cry out with how much he wants him.
Harry rocks forward; Louis pulls on his hair, mouths openly attached unless they need to breathe.
“Come on,” Louis says and pushes as Harry’s chest to get some space, to pull his sodding shirt over his head because he needs to feel skin, needs to feel Harry, all of him and he doesn’t want to wait. Louis is so fucking tired of waiting. “Please tell me you have something in those drawers.”
Harry moves their hips together one more time with a guttural moan before he pulls away reluctantly, arm stretching and pulling at the drawers, digging through them while Louis manages to sit up and starts to unbutton Harry’s trousers. He slides his hand inside before they’re even fully open, prompting Harry to blurt out a curse. An entire drawer crashes to the floor, something breaks, glass clinking, perhaps ink spilling all over the carpet, but neither of them care.
Harry’s trousers fall to his ankles and Louis yanks at his own, kicking them off his legs just as Harry finds what he was looking for and he’s standing between Louis’ legs, naked and chest heaving, a sheen of sweat already settled along his collarbones. Louis wants to lick it off.
He lies back down and pulls Harry with him, swallowing his own groans as he kisses him, hiding his gasp in his muscular shoulder when Harry almost spills an entire vial of oil over his body, arching his back when Harry continues to tease far longer than Louis is happy with. His legs lock around Harry’s waist in a vice-like grip, urging him on, begging him to hurry up and Louis slides his hands along his own torso, skin itching like there’s ants crawling all over him and he has half a mind to attempt to tear it off his bones. He doubts it would make much difference. He’s already as bare as he can be, spread out beneath Harry and subjected to his bright eyes so openly drinking him in, never wavering despite the almost erratic rhythm of his fingers.
When Harry finally – God, finally – sinks into him, teeth digging into the soft flesh of Louis’ neck, he can’t do anything but hold on to him, moving back and forth on mahogany, papers crumpling beneath his trembling back. Louis feels sweat trickling down his temples and along his hairline and he feels drops fall onto his cheeks and forehead and he tries to keep his eyes open, tries to find Harry’s, so wide and open and full of so many things Louis never thought he’d see directed at him but it’s so, so much. It’s so much that Louis has to squeeze his eyes shut and dig his fingers into Harry’s back, listening to his deep moans, sounding almost primal, sounding like he just can’t help that they slip past his lips and Louis himself has stopped trying to be quiet.
“Come on,” he says again, words breaking off into a sob as Harry swivels his hips just so. “Please, just – just –” and he doesn’t know how to continue, but Harry gets it anyway as he drives into him faster and more erratic.
Louis knows he’s close to the edge, thinks he might be about to fall off when there is a paradoxically soft touch to his cheeks, fingers trailing along his jaw and cheek and nose and forehead, into his hair and behind his ear. Harry kisses him, long and lingering like he’s pulling all air out of him.
“Just let go,” he tells Louis sounding no better than him. “God, Lou, I –” but he is cut off as Louis cries out, heat expanding across his body, lifting him into the air and the throwing him on the ground and Harry only thrusts two, three more times before he shudders and stills and they both remain linked together, desperately trying to catch their breath.
When his head clears after a seemingly long time, Louis wonders what Harry was going to say. But he’s scared of asking.
***
to be continued.
Chapter 5: V.
Summary:
Louis swallows thickly. His throat feels like it’s coated with sandpaper. “What’re you saying?”
“Not saying anything,” Zayn replies, pulling the duvet up until it tickles his nose, voice muffled when he continues. “But I’ve heard people talk about it. Some are saying it’s the Grim Reaper wandering the streets. Others that it’s body snatchers, offing orphans to sell their organs.”
Notes:
WARNINGS for this chapter: - Depictions of violence
- OMC deathDisclaimer: I do not own, nor do I know the people featured in this story. Their characterization is based on my personal perception of them and I do not claim that this is in any way related to the truth. Key word: FICTION.
A/N: I've just graduated and am now a Master of Arts. Got a bit of breathing room, some time on my hands and I hope I will have more time to write and the next update won't be as long. Again, massive thanks to Brit, you are a star!
Chapter Text
CHAPTER V.
“The small pulse of the life within me and the great heart of the city around me seemed to be sinking in unison.”
Wilkie Collins, The Woman in White
Louis goes back to work after a little more than a week of being cooped up at Harry’s house and slowly but steadily going out of his mind. Stepping out into the cold, fresh air is almost a shock. On the way to Edgware Road, he has to stop multiple times, lean against a wall and take a few deep breaths, feeling as if he’s run for hours on end, stamina completely shattered. His circulation is entirely off-balance and when he reaches Ben’s shop, he feels close to passing out. The fact that Ed is standing in front of it doesn’t make it any better.
Ed’s got some rolled up tobacco between his lips; paper and crushed leaves lit and smoke snaking it’s way past the shop windows and towards the grey sky. There are some dark patches in his hair and staining his clothing, like he’s been rolling in dirt or crawling through the sewers. His violin is in a battered case to his feet; its bow dangles loosely in his left hand.
Ed drops it when he sees Louis approaching. “Shit,” he breathes against Louis’ hair as he crushes him to his chest. “Shit, Louis, how – how is he?”
His eyes burn like they haven’t burned all week. Louis thought he’d all dried up. “Better. He’s going to be all right. Was close, though.”
Ed releases him and takes a step back, chewing on his lip, looking cautious like he does whenever he’s not playing. “Stan didn’t say much. Just that you got some help in the middle of the night and took Zayn to see a doctor. Is that where you’ve been? With a doctor?”
Louis’ heart beats heavily in his chest. He lowers his gaze to the cobbled street. “I took him to a friend. Who knows a doctor. We’ve been staying there.” It’s all he can give up for now, not ready to lay it all out for Ed just yet. He still feels like he has to keep Harry to himself; wants to keep Harry to himself. Louis isn’t ready to share him with the world.
“When are you coming back?”
“Soon,” Louis says, “I hope.” Although the thought isn’t as easy as the words roll past his lips. “Zayn’s still a bit weak. Not quite on his feet. I don’t want to leave him on his own.”
“Sure,” Ed says, stubbing his dirty shoe to the pavement. “We miss you though, eh? We were really worried.”
“Sorry –”
Ed shakes his head. “Nah, ‘s fine. Just take care of him, all right? And then come back.” He reaches for his violin and the bow lying on the street. “Ben knows, by the way. Why you couldn’t help out. But it’s all fine, me and Aiden took turns filling in. I mean, we couldn’t do what you always do, but – you know.”
Louis swallows thickly. “Thank you,” he manages and Ed smiles, rubbing a dirty sleeve across his nose.
“Not for that. We’re family, right?”
“Right,” Louis says and watches as Ed disappears around the corner, off to Liverpool Street Station or perhaps South Kensington where the clubs are aplenty and people still know how to tip.
He spends the day trying to make up for his absence, but by late afternoon he’s wheezing with every breath, feeling light-headed and dizzy. Mrs. Winston makes him sit by the stove when he almost breaks his neck tripping up the stairs from the basement. She gives him tea with so much sugar that it’s sickly sweet but he supposes it will tie him over until he can get some food into his stomach. Louis walks back to Lowndes Square when the sun is about to set, with an order from Ben to take the rest of the week off as well and not come back until he is back at full health and Zayn back on his feet. Louis knows that Aiden and Ed and Stan will fill in and he knows that Ben pays considerably well, but he hopes they have enough to pay their rent, to get enough to eat since he can’t help them for now.
Louis takes his usual route across Hyde Park, happy to walk and clear his head a little, despite knowing that Harry had almost insisted on picking him up, very unhappy with the idea of Louis leaving in the first place. He assumes that the news of having another handful of days to themselves will leave Harry more than appeased, but Louis doesn’t know how to feel about that.
He’s getting used to it, he fears, to the comfort and the company. Louis spends every night in Harry’s bed and every minute of the day with him when he doesn’t have to go out. They spend their time in Harry’s room, completely absorbed in one another, not even talking much but listening to the silence that surrounds them, to their own breathing or their aligned heartbeats, and when Harry leaves in his curricle, Louis slinks into Zayn’s room and sits on the bed with him.
Louis has taken to Harry’s personal library with all that free time at his hands, and he has started reading to Zayn. They’ve finished Great Expectations and are now halfway through Nicholas Nickleby. Sometimes Mairie, the young red-haired maid, will sit with them and listen whilst folding laundry that smells of lavender.
It’s all becoming so familiar already that Louis’ heart weighs heavily with it.
He finds Zayn sitting up in bed, a large piece of paper in his lap and some chalk on a plate on the bedside table. Louis kicks off his shoes and dumps his coat onto the armchair beside the bed, then crawls up the mattress to lie down next to Zayn. Zayn doesn’t say anything to or even look at him, but he nudges Louis with his knee and smiles softly when Louis curls his fingers around his bare ankle underneath the sheets.
He’s asleep within seconds.
When Louis wakes up, the room is dark. He blinks a few times, eyes bleary and adjusting to the lack of light, slightly disoriented for a moment or two. Turning his head, he sees that Zayn is staring up at the ceiling, immobile; faint light from the window shining in his eyes. The sheets rustle, and suddenly Zayn’s gaze is on Louis.
“Can’t sleep?” Louis asks him, voice raspy, stretching his legs, muscles stiff and sore.
Zayn shakes his head. His cheek slides across the pillow and he shifts onto his side, nose only a few inches away from Louis’. “Nah,” he replies quietly. “Too much in my head. Thinking about stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Life.” Zayn shrugs, movement bunching up the pillow. “Death, I suppose, since I got quite close to it. About what you said the other day.” When Louis furrows his brows, he elaborates. “You said Harry was the one good thing that happened to you.”
“You’re a good thing too,” Louis is quick to add, because it’s true and because he never wants Zayn to think that he doesn’t already consider himself fortunate to have him and the other guys. It’s so much more than many have. “You were the first person to talk to me and not just over my head, do you remember that? You said hello and told me your name, asked for mine, and you gave me half of your bread because the other kids wouldn’t let me have any and I didn’t know how to fight for it yet.”
Louis doesn’t remember much about the orphanage. It’s like a jagged, broken piece in his memory, all sharp around the corners and it hurts when he gets so close, because he had been so fucking scared and so alone, cold and hungry and exhausted from crying for his family that had just seemingly disappeared off of the face of the earth. Meeting Zayn and subsequently Stan had been the first bright spot in this dark and haunted place, and it had marked the start of a new life for all of them, in a way. They had buried the past and moved on together.
“Course I remember,” Zayn says. “You were the first to talk to me too, you know? Nobody had ever wanted to talk to me. Kept saying I was the devil’s child, because of my darker skin.” He pauses for a few seconds, gaze turning even more thoughtful. “But that’s not the same. And I get that now, I think. We’ve had a shit start in life to begin with, but we only have the one, so wanting something that makes you happy… You’d be an idiot not to want it.”
“Sounds pretty selfish to me,” Louis can’t help but comment, glancing down, suddenly not able to meet Zayn’s eyes.
“Think you have to be, once in a while. I mean, we could all be dead tomorrow.”
Louis huffs out a laugh. It sounds chokes off and false. “Very optimistic.”
“It’s true though. Especially since they still haven’t caught whoever’s on this killing spree in Whitechapel.”
He shivers at that, because it had entirely slipped his mind in the last handful of days, having to worry about other things than a possible madman breaking people’s necks just around the corner from where they usually live. “Oh God, don’t remind me.”
Zayn rolls back onto his back, eyes once again on the ceiling, drooping slightly and he looks like he’s about to drift off. “Did I ever tell you about finding the first bloke? Or like, I didn’t find him, but I was around the brewery the night before they did, right. And usually,” he says, voice getting quieter, words starting to blur together a little as he grows heavier with fatigue, “there are always patrols around. Lots of robberies, lots of hookers and that. But that night, there was nobody out. Was really fucking spooky.”
Louis swallows thickly. His throat feels like it’s coated with sandpaper. “What’re you saying?”
“Not saying anything,” Zayn replies, pulling the duvet up until it tickles his nose, voice muffled when he continues. “But I’ve heard people talk about it. Some are saying it’s the Grim Reaper wandering the streets. Others that it’s body snatchers, offing orphans to sell their organs.”
“Why don’t they ever take the body?” He ignores his heart beating heavily in his chest, tightening his lungs. This isn’t exactly a conversation he’d like to have before attempting to sleep.
Zayn shrugs, shoulders rubbing over the sheets. “Just theories. One of them was gutted. Could be missing his liver.”
“Can we,” Louis starts and stumbles over his own voice. He has to cough to clear it up. “Can we just go to sleep?”
“Sure,” and with that, Zayn has closed his eyes and has drifted off in seconds.
Louis lies on his back and stares at the ceiling, breath shallow, trying not to move, as if any sudden movement would lure those monsters from the street out of the shadows. When he was little, he remembers, he used to be scared of the dark. After moving to London, he used to flinch away from strangers on the street, needing a long time to adjust to the hustle and bustle of the big city. His mother used to leave a single candle burning just outside his bedroom until he’d fall asleep.
He blames his tired mind for actually considering that it’s really the Grim Reaper, in a dark, long cloak roaming the streets in search of him, pulling him under to join the rest of his family and it takes Louis a very long time to shake off the mental images that clog his head. When he wakes in the morning, Zayn still fast asleep next to him, he feels restless and unsettled, skin crawling and he burrows deeper under the covers, turns his face into the pillow and breathes in the familiar lavender scent.
Harry is away a lot over the next couple of days. He doesn’t tell Louis much about these business-related meetings and Louis doesn’t think he’s in the position to pry. He’s also not sure he wants to know about all these noblemen rubbing elbows and making shallow smalltalk. He knows Harry’s not like that, but he hasn’t changed his opinion on the rest of the upper class.
Zayn still needs a lot of rest and whenever he’s sleeping, Louis sits in Harry’s study, and flicks through books he hasn’t read, feeling like he’s going to crawl out of his own skin. He’s never done well with being cooped up somewhere. It gives him too much time to spend with his own thoughts, too much time to dwell on memories and feelings and everything he’s deemed unnecessary and distracting. Louis wants to leave, wants to work, needs to see how the others are faring, but he can’t leave Zayn and he is not going to leave Zayn, but Louis can practically measure the increase in the unease he’s feeling being stuck in this place he doesn’t belong.
Three days into his forced exile, he finds Niall in Zayn’s room early afternoon. Harry’s been out since early morning, but Louis hadn’t managed to shut his eyes all night, so he’d spent the morning half asleep and dizzy in Harry’s bedroom. When he closes the door behind him, his eyes widen in surprise and Niall, sitting on the bed opposite Zayn, throws a look over his shoulder and grins widely.
“Hello there,” he greets Louis. “Feeling better? You’re not looking as pale as when I saw you last.”
“I’m better, thanks,” Louis replies and slowly moves across the room. Niall turns back to face Zayn who has a deck of cards in his hands. He’s slowly shuffling it and winks at Louis, and Louis barely refrains from rolling his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re showing him your tricks.”
Zayn has a couple too many of them up his sleeve, Louis thinks. It’s a quick way to earn some extra cash for sure, gambling with a few drunk workers at a pub who are too far gone to realise they’re being conned. They’ve gotten lucky a few times, but it’s also gone horribly wrong and Louis is always grateful for his quick feet, for knowing the small alleys like the back of his hands.
“He wanted me to show him,” Zayn says simply, increasing the speed of his shuffling and quickly dealing for the two of them. Louis sits down in the armchair that’s now a permanent feature next to the bed and draws his legs up, pulling his feet underneath him because they tend to get cold even in this heated room. He sees that Niall has shrugged of his jacket and tie, rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt. His shoes are on the flood; his face is slightly flushed, like he’s just come in from the cold. He probably has.
“I’m utter shit at card games,” Niall explains with a quick glance to Louis. “Me uncle keeps telling me to stop, but I figure if I win more often than I lose he might stop nagging.”
He focused back on the cards Zayn’s dealing out with practiced ease and Louis is content to just watch and lean back in the armchair, head still heavy and neck uncomfortably stiff. There are a few candles lit on a small table in the corner, heating a small basin filled with aromatic oil and herbs that make the air smell incredibly spicy and sweet at the same time, to aid Zayn’s recovery, and Louis tries to breathe in and out for a while, tries to tell himself it calms his nerves and makes the crawling of his skin go away.
Outside the windows the sky is still grey but speckled with blue and it’s starting to feel a little bit like spring. The years before, Louis had always looked forward to the warmer days approaching, to brighter mornings and mild evening and different smells in the air, streets alive and bustling and colour on people’s faces
This time, when he tries to think ahead, he feels dread pooling in the pit of his stomach for reasons unknown.
Harry returns early in the evening when Niall’s hair is in disarray from the many times he’s run his hands through it in frustration. He’s motivated and eager but clearly very bad at bluffing. Zayn finds it hilarious, Louis can tell, and anything that makes him smile sits well with Louis.
Liam, who Louis hasn’t seen since that one awkward breakfast that seems a lifetime away, is following on Harry’s heels, closing the door behind him. They’ve both shrugged out of their coats, but are still impeccably dressed otherwise. Neckties so clean and white they seem to light up the room, waistcoats and tailored jackets and shiny shoes. Louis can’t help but feel inappropriate sitting on the chair in Harry’s shirt that’s too big on him and keeps sliding off his shoulder. He hasn’t been able to shake the habit.
As always, Harry smiles openly at him, only has eyes for him, completely ignoring anyone else’s presence until he’s come over to Louis, sitting down on the armrest of the chair. He brings up his hand to stroke a thumb across Louis’ jaw and Louis relishes the feeling, he truly does, but he still stiffens at the touch, uncomfortable with three pairs of eyes watching them. Zayn isn’t really looking at them, but Louis knows he still sees it, discreetly glancing out of the corners of his eyes. Louis feels under scrutiny and it’s not something he appreciates.
He turns his body slightly, twists his shoulders away from Harry and squares them and if Harry’s hurt by the distance Louis is putting between them, he’s very good at masking it.
“Were you able to get some more sleep this morning?” Harry asks and Louis sees his fingers twitch like he’s stopping himself from reaching out to touch once more. “You were restless all night.”
The implication is enough to heat Louis’ cheeks, but Zayn just keeps shuffling the cards and Niall keeps smiling. Liam busies himself with dragging another chair to Zayn’s bedside. This entire situation is starting to become a little odd. “I’m fine. I don’t need a lot of sleep.”
“But you’re still recov-”
“Harry,” Louis cuts him off, lowering his gaze and surprised to find the nails of his left hand dig deeply into the pale flesh of his right. It should hurt like hell. “Please. Drop it.” He can still feel their eyes on him, he knows he sounds like a stubborn brat, but he doesn’t want Harry to tell him what to do, and he doesn’t want to fucking sleep. He doesn’t want to fall asleep and dream and not know whether or not it’s actually only a dream. “You said you were going to be gone all evening,” Louis remembers instead, still not meeting Harry’s searching eyes.
“We left early,” Liam answers for the both of them. “It wasn’t what I’d call good company.”
“Thought you were just going to see some party folk,” Niall throws in, leaning back on his hands, still sitting cross-legged on the bed.
“We were,” Harry says. “And it was – it was all right, before the conversation steered to a rather uncomfortable subject.” That makes Louis finally look up at Harry, who has started to worry his lower lip. “Apparently, there was another homicide,” he continues after a few beats and Louis’ blood runs cold. “Scotland Yard found a body in a back alley in Whitechapel earlier today, badly mutilated.”
“I asked Commissioner Cowell if they had any leads,” Liam adds seamlessly and something in Louis’ chest suddenly stirs, itches, makes him uncomfortable, even more than he is already and he can’t decide what is making him feel that way. “He said that there are no connections between the victims, no pattern in the crimes and –” Liam squirms for moment, lowers his gaze in an almost guilty fashion. “The other people present were quite happy to voice their opinion that no resources should be wasted on investigating the death of…” He trails off this time, doesn’t finish and Louis can see how his Adam’s apple bobs up and down.
“Maggots,” Harry finishes gravely and when Louis turns to look at him again, he can see how tightly he is gripping the worn leather of the armchair, knuckles white with it, fist almost shaking with suppressed tension. “They called them maggots.”
Louis shares a quick look with Zayn, then he takes a deep breath and lifts his arms to cover Harry’s hand with his. Harry almost flinches and whips his head towards Louis in surprise and Louis squeezes his fingers, gives him a tired smile. “That shouldn’t make you upset,” he tells him. “It’s what most people think.”
Zayn huffs out a dry laugh. “Hell, we’ve really been called worse. I guess maggot is one of the nicer things, even.”
Harry expression is almost incredulous, but at least his grip has loosened. “How can you be not be bothered by that? I nearly punched a member of government.”
Niall’s loud bark of laughter startles them all a little bit. “Oh man, why wasn’t I there to see this? You’ve never thrown a punch in your life,” he wheezes, shoulders shaking with amusement. Harry only grumbles something under his breath and Louis wants to say something to him when he catches Zayn’s cautious glance.
“Think we knew him?” he asks Louis quietly, but sitting this close together with nothing but Niall’s fading cackles, it’s clear that the others are listening in.
“Probably,” Louis replies, feeling the coldness settle in his bones. “What if – what if it was Stan? Or Aiden, or Ed?”
He watches a Zayn’s lips form a thin, tight line and his friend shakes his head vehemently. “Nah, can’t be. Absolutely not, all right Lou? They’re too smart. Probably sticking together since we’re not there.”
Louis wants to believe that. God, does he want to believe that. “I should check on them. Make a quick run to see them tonight.”
Zayn starts to nod, but suddenly there are fingers digging into Louis’ shoulder.
“You can’t go out there tonight, not after –”
It’s the second time he interrupts Harry tonight and he doesn’t mean to, but Louis doesn’t have the energy to defend every single decision he still gets to make. There are so few and he feels so fucking helpless anyway. He needs to do at least this. The lads are his family. He needs to know they’re all right.
“After someone died? That happens every bloody day. You want to know how many people I’ve watched die out in the open street?” It’s not particularly fair on Harry, or Liam, or Niall, and Louis is aware of that. But it’s a tooth he’s got to pull. “You want to know how many times I took clothes off of someone who’d frozen to death so that wouldn’t happen to me, or Zayn, or any of our friends?” He gets up on shaky legs and Louis tries not to let it show how drained he actually feels. “I agreed to let you help, Harry. But don’t you dare try and save me. I don’t need to be saved,” Louis says, taking a deep breath. “None of us need to be saved.”
Black spots dance in front of his vision as he tries to swiftly move past Harry, praying that he isn’t going to pass out because his head is spinning so fast. Louis needs to get his shoes and his coat and he needs to get out of this house. It’s suddenly as if he can hear the roof crumbling above his head, about to crash down and bury him and the worst thing about this is that Louis knows he’s panicking without reason, that’s he’s starting to lash out like a caged animal, that –
That he’s trying to push Harry away so it won’t get harder than it already is once they have to part ways. Louis wants to stop, he wants to turn around, but he can’t. He needs to clear his head, he needs to be alone to organise his thoughts, to separate hazy images conjured up in the middle of the night from the sharp visual reality should provide him with.
Louis has to repress the urge to smack his own head against the next wall until his skull cracks.
He is quick to make it out of the room and up the stairs to where he’s left his things. Slipping into his shoes and doing up his shirt and shrugging on the moth-eaten coat, Louis feels more like himself than he’s felt in a while. It’s strange to find himself split in two, partially used to the comfort, partially looking forward to getting some dirt on his skin, to make his muscles ache from hard labour. He doesn’t need to turn around to know that Harry has followed him, is stepping from one foot to the other, looking so incredibly wrong in this suit that’s all stiff and dark and buttoned up to his chin.
Louis drops his hands to his sides and straightens, fixes Harry with his gaze. There are only a few feet between them, but once again, after fighting and reconciling and talking and mending, the distance is tangible and it hurts. Fucking hell does it hurt.
“I’m sorry,” he says, glad that he has at least a small shred of decency inside of him. Harry has done so much, continues to do so much in spite of Louis not being able to give back anything at all. He’s not stupid enough to completely disregard that.
“Me too,” Harry replies, dragging the tip of his polished shoe across the carpet. “I don’t think you need saving. I just want you to be safe.”
“I am,” Louis insists and he’s lying through his teeth. They both know he is. “I know what it’s like out there and I know how to survive. I can get to Whitechapel and back without biting the dust.”
“How can you be so sure?” The words are barely above a whisper, and they’re close to breaking Louis’ heart.
“Harry –”
“No,” Harry shakes his head, not moving even a single inch. “Please. Hear me out. I know it’s not my place and I am aware that you’re very capable of taking care of Zayn and your friends, but I get the feeling you’re not very good at taking care of yourself and it is – it’s physically painful to watch you leave, you know? Every time you walk out that door I don’t know when you’re coming back, or if you’re coming back at all.”
“I’m coming back,” Louis tries to assure him, this time he is coming back. He doesn’t say that there will be a point in the near future where that won’t be the case. “You need to trust me on that. You can’t keep me locked up here.”
“I’m not trying to lock you up,” Harry protests, finally stepping closer and Louis aches to touch him in spite of knowing that keeping his distance right at this moment is necessary.
“You are,” he insists. Louis pulls his coat tighter around his body and flips up the collar. It’s getting warmer, but at night the air is still biting and cold, creeping through every gap, numbing skin and limbs. He’s spent too long inside of Harry’s heated mansion and he fears the harsh reality of nightly London streets. “They’re my family. I need to know they’re all right.”
“I understand, I really do. At least let me call my driver. He can drop you off on Commercial Road, or somewhere closer. Please,” Harry all but begs. “It would ease my mind.”
Louis still shakes his head. “I can’t go to Whitechapel in a carriage, Harry. How’d that look?” Harry pulls a face at that, clearly unhappy and Louis is quick to continue, uneasiness crawling up his spine already, making him antsy. “I’ll hurry, I promise. I know all the shortcuts. Be back before you know it.”
He hesitates for just a second before he closes the distance between them, gets up on his toes and winds his arms around Harry’s neck to give him a solid hug. Harry’s arms close around him immediately, locking at the small of his back and pulling Louis impossibly closer. The shoulders of Harry’s jacket are still slightly damp and he smells like rain and cigar smoke and oddly sweet like a particularly good brandy. The curls that tickle Louis’ temple are soft and Louis can’t help but turn his face into Harry’s neck until his nose brushes warm and soft skin.
“Don’t hog the blankets,” he says, swallowing thickly. “I’ll be a few hours at most.”
It’s not a lie, Louis knows it’s not, so he doesn’t understand why it feels like one when he lets go, looks at Harry for another moment, and then leaves the room with quick steps.
It’s freezing out on the streets. The wind is picking up; cutting through dark alleys like a knife would cut through lard. The sun has already set but Central London is still bustling, men dragging heavy barrows through the filth that’s gathered in the gutter. But the streets start to die out the further he ventures towards the East End. It’s spooky and it unsettles Louis more than he cares to admit. He’s known this area for half his life and something is off, he can feel it in his gut as he hunches his shoulders and keeps his head down, moves his feet as quick as he can without breaking into a run.
Old Street is virtually deserted, not counting the dark figures that are practically one with the brick walls, chewing tobacco and reeking of alcohol. They don’t scare him, they haven’t done so in quite some years and neither does the thick fog that creeps up from seemingly out of nowhere, so heavy that it soaks Louis’ clothes. But there is something different about Shoreditch as he approaches the High Street.
Louis knows that he’d promised Zayn and Harry a quick return and he’s only heading home to check on the lads, but he supposes he has time for a small detour. It won’t take long, he’s certain about that, and he really needs something to ease his mind, so Louis turns right on the High Street, follows it for a few feet before he sees the small pub at the corner to Bateman’s Row.
There aren’t many people inside Corden’s, but it’s still muggy. The smell’s familiar though, and oddly comforting. Louis had worked an entire summer scrubbing the floors of the kitchen. It’d been his first actual job, so he guesses he’ll always have fond memories. The man behind the counter idly wiping the dark surface is a friendly presence, but Louis has seen him deal with people with a firm hand and he’s respected and trusted, which is exactly why Louis needs to talk to him.
Louis steps up to the counter and raises his hand to knock on the wood, dented from many years of drunkards grabbing onto it. The round face shoots up; eyes bright even in the dark room meet his.
“Y’all right, James?” Louis greets the man with a smile and the next second he nearly gets dragged over the counter by strong hands pulling at his shoulders as James hoists him into a hug.
“Louis, my boy!” he exclaims, apparently very delighted with the unexpected visit. Louis doesn’t have time to visit very often anymore, none of them do and he feels bad for it, because James had been one of the first people in this city that had met him with kindness instead of disgust. He’d given him and Zayn a job cleaning the pub and scrubbing dirty pots at night, meaning they’d had a roof over their heads for the first time since leaving the orphanage. “How’ve you been? I haven’t seen you since, what? Autumn?”
“Probably,” Louis says, walking around the counter when James motions him to do so. “But I’m good. As good as circumstances allow, I guess.”
“Tough lads, aren’t you?” James smiles and grabs two glasses, a bottle of dark rum and pours a generous amount for the both of them. “Saw Ed the other day, played a couple of songs outside. He’s gotten pretty good.”
Louis takes the glass, smell going to his head almost instantly because he skipped lunch, and he can’t remember if he’s had anything for breakfast. “He’s a genius.” The rum is heavy and it burns all the way down his throat, but it warms his shivering body as it settles in his stomach. “He should be playing Albert Hall, not on the corner of a street.”
James swirls the amber liquid until it threatens to slosh over the brim. “And you should be going to University with that brain o’ yours. But life ain’t fair, eh?” He takes a swig of the rum and leans against the bar. “So what brings you here? Looking for work?”
“Nah, wish it was for that, but – it’s a bit more unpleasant. Thought you’d be the right person to ask, though.”
“Then ask ahead,” James tells him, emptying his glass and wiping his hands on his stained apron.
Louis takes another sip for courage. “I was wondering if you knew anything about the homicides. I mean – you know the ones. We heard that there’s been another body and – not sure. Would just ease my mind if you’d heard anything from someone.”
If there’s anything happening in East London, James tends to know about it. Louis has observed that for a while, people going in and out of the pub, leaving information and spilling secrets over numerous pints and never paying attention to whoever it is that’s providing them with even more alcohol. James is trustworthy and he’s not a blackmailer, but he remembers things in case they turn out to be important.
James is quiet for a handful of moments, his gaze calculating, fine line between his brows. The only sound in the small and dark room is the mumbling of a drunkard in a corner booth. “What do you think I’d know?”
Louis shrugs, trying to appear calm, but for some reason his heart is already beating frantically in his chest. “Who was he?”
James lips remain firmly pressed together for at least a minute before he speaks up again, dropping his voice and angling his body so that he has the entire pub in his line of sight.
“His name was O’Neil. Young Irish fellow who came over here with his uncle when he was a kid. The uncle died, he went to St. George’s for a while. Maybe you knew him?” Louis shakes his head quickly as James shoots him a glance, throat clogged. “I gave him work for a while, perhaps a year after you and Zayn had left. Stayed with me for a couple of months, then he started at some factory on the Southern Bank. Didn’t see him after that.”
Louis feels faint. It’s one too many to be a coincidence. He doesn’t know what it means, but it’s starting to scare the living daylights out of him. “What happened?”
“McAllister found him. He owns the bakery on Hanbury Street.” James drops his voice even more, starts moving some glasses to makes some noise to cover up whatever it is he’s about to say. “He was opening the shop before dawn, saw the body lying in a alley. From what I’ve heard, it looks like the poor sod had taken quite a beating before getting his neck broken.”
“Shit,” Louis breathes out, starting to feel light-headed and nauseous. “Do they know who did it?”
“Nah,” James says, grabbing the rum and pouring himself another glass. “Hasn’t been anyone around asking question though, either. But I figure us kind isn’t their priority. Scotland Yard’s probably happy someone’s cleaning the streets for them.”
“Jesus.”
“Fuckin’ Jesus,” James agrees and fills Louis glass even though it’s not empty yet.
They finish their drinks quicker than they probably should, but suddenly Louis is eager to find Stan, Aiden and Ed, talk to them for a bit, and somehow make his way back to Knightsbridge before sunrise.
“Look after yourself Louis, will you?” James tells him when Louis is on his way out, concern evident in his tone and stance. “It’s getting rough out there.”
“I noticed,” Louis replies and is about to reach for the doorknob when James calls out to him once more.
“Oi, you don’t have any family round here, do you?” he asks and Louis stops short.
“No, there was just – I mean, it was my parents and my sisters. That was it,” he answers, entirely puzzled why James would be wondering about that.
James nods to himself, worrying his lip for a moment before sighing heavily. Louis is suddenly very certain that this isn’t going to be a good thing. “There was a bloke here, a while ago, couple of weeks I think, in his forties, or fifties. Told me he was looking for his nephew, and that he’d gone to St. George, and that his name was Louis.”
It feels like the carpet is being pulled out beneath his feet, taking his breath right with it. “What?” Louis croaks, not sure if he even makes a sound. The room is suddenly spinning around him, blurring at the edges. He can’t feel his limbs.
“Not your uncle then,” James concludes, and to say he looks concerned is an understatement. Alarmed would be more fitting and that’s probably the indication to start panicking. “Perhaps you should stay the night.”
Louis should. He really should. He remembers Harry’s voice telling him that he isn’t taking care of himself very well, but he also remembers promising to come back tonight, to only be away a few hours and he doesn’t want to worry him for no reason.
“I can’t. I… I need to find the lads.”
James nods, understanding. “Then be careful, all right? Be really fucking careful.”
Louis turns around, feeling numb, feeling like he’s going to throw up any moment and the cold air is like a slap to his face, dragging him back into the moment, making him focus.
He swallows thickly, trying to make sense of what James just told him. For a few seconds he actually tries really hard to remember if his parents had ever mentioned a brother, a distant uncle, some sort of relative, but nothing comes to mind. He’d been young, but he’s not stupid and he figures he would’ve remembered family members. He figures any proper family member would’ve come for him and St. George wouldn’t have happened in the first place.
Louis takes a deep breath and runs his hands over his face. Then he turns right and starts heading deeper into Whitechapel with a new found pace, keeping his eyes and ears open.
Their room is empty when he manages to unlock the jammed door. But the moth-eaten blankets are still there and there is a bucket of by now ice-cold water, so he knows they haven’t been gone for too long. Louis swears under his breath, stays frozen to the spot for a minute because he doesn’t know how to let the lads know he’s all right, if James telling him about O’Neil has eased his worry enough.
Eventually, Louis decides that he doesn’t really have a choice but head back to Lowndes Square without seeing them, but there’s always a chance of them hanging around Liverpool Street. It’s probably still early enough for a second small detour. He strides across the room and rearranges the blankets into neat piles, hoping it will send the right message, then he closes the door behind him again, jams the lock and walks down the creaking stairs.
Outside, for some reason, it’s even darker than before. The fog has become almost impenetrable and Louis can barely see his own hands when he holds them up in front of his blinking eyes. Tugging his coat tighter around his body, he decides on the quickest route that will take him past Liverpool Street Station and keeps close to the damp walls, away from the big streets, opting for alleys that aren’t well known to anyone who isn’t local. Louis can’t be sure if that’s a smart move or if he’s doing something really stupid here. He just knows he needs to get to Knightsbridge as quickly as possible.
Fumes rising from the ground, voices in the distances yelling obscenities, an odd noise here and there, sound of his own beating heart echoing far too loudly in his head, Louis has just passed Commercial Street when he starts to feel a prickle on the back of his neck, like someone’s watching him, perhaps even following him, although he can’t actually hear any steps on the wet cobbled street.
His hands start to shake and he shoves them deep into the pockets of his coat, feeling for the holes in the fabric to distract his mind that’s rambling ahead without letting him catch on. Louis needs to focus and concentrate, and he needs to calm the fuck down. The Grim Reaper isn’t chasing after him, there’s nobody following through the streets of London and the person James had mentioned had probably meant a different Louis. Coincidences happen, he tells himself. They fucking do.
He’s just rounding the corner to turn into the next pathway between two buildings, already close to Liverpool Street, when he hears it. Steps; somewhere behind him, but close, echoing between the walls. Louis’ heart jumps into his throat and he tries to walk faster without seeming suspicious, but the person is coming closer, breaking into a run and suddenly a hand closes around his arm, pulling him back and –
“Oi, wait up.”
Louis deflates. His chest hurts but the next second; he feels a sigh of relief leave his body. It’s just a lad, probably his age, with dirty blond hair and half his teeth missing. Louis doesn’t think he’s ever been as relieved in his life. “Christ, way to scare a bloke. Did you have to creep up on me like that?”
The bloke shrugs sheepishly. “My bad,” he says. “You’re Louis, right? I remember you from St. George’s. I’m Thomas.”
Louis forces his alarm bells to quieten down. He’s only half successful. “You had a sister, didn’t you? Rebecca?” He does actually remember, the siblings that had mostly kept to themselves, the girl deaf if he recalls correctly. “You doing all right?”
“Can’t complain,” Thomas says, but he doesn’t look very well. Louis is aware that he’s not exactly a picture of health himself, but Thomas is skin and bones, littered with bruises. “Were you going to Liverpool Street? Can I tag along?”
“Sure,” Louis replies, their shoulders brushing as they proceed to walk. He tries to even out his breaths again, but his heart is still erratic and his pulse still too fast for his liking. It’s not far, he tells himself, and now he’s got company – that should count for something, but it turns out he counted his chickens before they’d hatched. They’ve only gone a few yards when Thomas leans close, breath hitting the skin of Louis’ neck, making him shiver unpleasantly.
“Don’t turn around,” Thomas whispers close to his ear, making all nerves in Louis’ body suddenly stand on edge, “but there’s someone following us. Been on my heels for a while.”
Every instinct Louis possesses is screaming at him to run, to panic and shout and draw attention to himself this close to a heavily frequented station, but he’s got no clue how closely they’re being followed and he has no idea what that person is capable of, or who that person even is, what they want. He quenches the panic that wants to seize his mind and body and forces himself to remain as calm as possible, which is easier said than done.
“What do we do?” he whispers back, because Thomas seems to have a handle on the situation, at least seemingly so.
“Keep walking,” Thomas says. “There’s an empty storage house ahead, the side door’s always unlocked. We slip in there and hide and hope the bastard doesn’t find us.”
Louis nods stiffly. He can barely breathe. He can’t think, can only focus on moving his feet, left and right, left and right, brick wall rubbing against his shoulder as they keep walking. The door to the storage house is there before he’s really ready. Thomas yanks on the door and it flies open, slams against the wall with a bang.
Then everything happens so fast Louis can’t even register it. Heavy footsteps thunder right behind them as they stumble into the empty house. It’s dark and so dusty Louis almost chokes on it and he falls over his own feet, crashes to the floor as Thomas keeps running. He knows he doesn’t have time to scramble to his feet and go after him, but he also knows that it’s dark, so he rolls to the side, can just about make out some vague silhouettes by the wall on the left and moves as quietly as he can. It’s a pile of furniture, he realises, just as a heavy figure steps into the room. With a last push of his legs, another stretch of his arms, palms catching on splintered wood, Louis drags himself under a heavy wardrobe, or cabinet, silently sending a prayer to God for being small and skinny.
There’s barely any light coming in from outside, and his eyes can only adjust so much, but Louis realises that the man after them is a giant, wearing a long coat and fuck, maybe it’s the Grim Reaper after all. He hears a desperate rattling; a lock clanking and it must be Thomas, trying to get out of the room, stuck with that man quickly approaching. Louis holds his breath, feeling the urge to close his eyes but it wouldn’t do any good anyway. He has to help but he knows he can’t and he doesn’t – Louis doesn’t want to die, because that’s what this fucking is. And all of a sudden, Louis knows that this man wants to kill Thomas, and that he’s going to kill him too if he gets his hands on him and he promised…
He promised Harry he’d made it back. Louis is starting to understand why that promise had felt like a lie. It had felt untrue in some weird sense of foreboding and he wishes he’d been proven wrong.
He doesn’t want to die.
There’s a loud crash and Louis flinches and then Thomas starts to scream. It makes Louis’ blood curdle as he listens to a body being dragged across the floor, more screams and desperate pleas and his eyes are beginning to burn. He can’t believe this is happening.
There’s a swoosh, a heavy object slicing through air, and a sickening crack that follows, a gargling sound, wet and choked off, then another swoosh. Something cracks again. Bile rises in his throat, but Louis presses both hands to his mouth, presses down so hard his teeth are digging into flesh. He doesn’t dare to move, doesn’t dare to make a single sound and he has to listen as bones crack, as something warm and wet splatters onto his face, wood splintering under the heavy blows.
It goes on for far too long. When it all stops, all that Louis hears is heavy breathing, a quiet thump and rustling, then the heavy steps start again, and they’re moving towards him. Louis closes his eyes, holds his breath, and puts hands over mouth and nose to cut off his air supply, stopping himself from accidentally making any kind of noise that could give him away. But he fears his heart is beating so loudly it’s already echoing across the room and he opens his eyes again. He wants to at least see the person that’s going to kill him.
The man moves closer and Louis can suddenly make out heavy boots, shining wetly in the dark, a heavy object dangling by his side, perhaps an iron pipe. The cloak is so long it almost brushes the dusty floor.
His lungs are starting to burn through lack of oxygen and spots are dancing in front of his eyes, but his body is numb, waiting for the man to make the next move.
He sees a flurry of movement, metal flying through air and Louis is already preparing for an impact that doesn’t come. Instead, the metal bar comes crashing down on the cabinet, wood groaning just before it bursts, glass raining down onto the floor like pulverised diamonds, shimmering like there is anything bright about this moment. The cabinet breaks apart and Louis feels the heavy wood pressing onto him, but he still doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, and keeps waiting for it all to be over.
And then it is.
The heavy breathing stops, and the sound of retreating footsteps and the slamming door tells him that he’s, against all odds, still alive and alone. Louis waits another few seconds to make sure, then he drops his arms and chokes a bucketful of air into his lungs. He wheezes and coughs and tries to stretch out his arms to pull himself out from under the wreckage. Shards of glass dig into his skin and cut open his palms, but Louis doesn’t care, doesn’t really feel it.
Pushing shattered wood to the side, he crawls forward on all fours, blindly trying to navigate through the room, still trying to breathe and think. He feels weird. He feels like there is something wrong with him. Louis should probably be screaming at this point, but it’s like his body is filled with cotton balls, numbing his nerves.
His right hand closes around a lifeless limb, his left fingers land in something wet and slippery and that’s Thomas lying on the ground there, not moving and the strong smell of iron rises up his nose. Louis’ head is spinning, but he keeps moving, crawls over the still warm and wet body. His arms and legs are incredibly heavy, but he manages to get closer and closer to the door.
When he touches the handle, it takes almost all of his remaining strength to pull himself to his feet. Louis sways from side to side, blacks out for a second with the effort, but he steadies his body, leans heavily against the door and waits until his lung is sufficiently filled with air. He’s never felt this tired in his life. But Louis needs to get back to Harry and Zayn, because he promised, because it’s been a few hours already and he promised he’d be back. He needs to go back.
Louis opens the door and almost falls face first into the alley. His hands are cut open and hurt when he catches his fall and he must be making too much noise, door creaking in its hinges and his own fall echoing between the walls, because there are footsteps again, rapidly approaching and this time, panic manages to seize him completely.
In a last bout of adrenaline, Louis gets to his feet and runs. His shoulder slams into a wall as he cuts a sharp corner and he doesn’t know if he’s fast enough, if there are people close by, if he can get away without the man catching up to him. There is no way he can keep up this tempo until he reaches Liverpool Street and Louis can barely see, is close to passing out, but luck, for once, seems to be on his side.
There’s a gully up ahead, with a lid that’s easy to detach and pull back over his head. Louis’ spent years hiding in the tunnels below London and he knows them almost as well as he knows the streets around him. So he lunges forward, grabs the bars and pulls with the last reserves of his strength. It comes away with a quiet shriek. Louis slides into the dark tunnel, grabs the ladder with one arm, and pulls the gully shut with the other – then he lets himself drop a few feet. His legs immediately give out when he hits the slippery ground and it’s wet and dirty and smells utterly foul, but he’s got to keep moving, got to keep walking even if it fucking kills him.
Louis isn’t going to let some madman smash his skull.
It’s completely dark, so he uses the walls to guide him away from the gully and further into the sewage system of London. He doesn’t know how long he keeps walking and he’s not sure what direction he’s heading. But eventually, his legs can’t hold his weight anymore and he falls to the ground like a wet sack of flour, leans his back against the wall, arms limp by his side.
Only then does everything come crashing down on him. Louis blinks one, two, three times, then it all goes black.
to be continued.
Chapter 6: VI.
Summary:
The fog doesn't lift in the morning. The sun is crawling up from the horizon but barely distinguishable, only contributing to a rather haunting light that fills the empty streets, thick and smelling of fumes, as if the Great Fire had haunted the night, burning out houses and poisoning the air.
Notes:
WARNING for this chapter: Emotional and physical trauma
DISCLAIMER: I do not own, nor do I know the people featured in this story. Their characterization is based on my personal perception of them and I do not claim that this is in any way related to the truth. Key word: FICTION.
A/N: This was difficult. Heavy on the plot. Massive thanks as always to Brit for saving me from myself and my typos. You babe. Also, it's kind of nearing the end isn't it? It's looking like it's either gonna be one massive seventh chapter and then the epilogue, but depending on the length, I might split chapter seven in two. Either way, we're nearing the finish line. Thanks for reading and all.
Chapter Text
“The whole series of my life appeared to me as a dream; I sometimes doubted if indeed it were all true, for it never presented itself to my mind with the force of reality.”
+++
The fog doesn't lift in the morning. The sun is crawling up from the horizon but barely distinguishable, only contributing to a rather haunting light that fills the empty streets, thick and smelling of fumes, as if the Great Fire had haunted the night, burning out houses and poisoning the air. It makes it hard to breathe, makes it hard to see, a heavy curtain cutting everyone off from reality.
Wooden panels are nailed across the windows and someone has taken it upon him- or herself to smear offensive slurs all over them, dark and ragged and jumping out against the scintillating light. There's the odd sound here and there –a set of hooves, a wooden cart - but it's unusually quiet and everything seems too far away somehow.
The street is uneven. He keeps stumbling, hitting his shoulder against brittle stonewalls and part of him knows it should hurt, and yet he can barely feel it. Something is tickling his wrists and palms and legs, but he pays it no mind, knows deep down, past the numbness and the detachment that sticks to him like honey, that he needs to keep moving, that under no circumstances he can allow himself to slow down.
His eyes keep getting heavy, lids drooping, and he brings his hand up to rub at them, smearing something wet across his face, the scent of metal rising up his noise, making his throat ache.
As the sun climbs higher and higher, people start reappearing, going about their business, but he slips away into hidden alleys, staying out of sight, and tries to calm his pounding heart. When he gets to the river, he climbs over the railing without second thought. At this time of day, there's a sliver of muddy ground to walk on, out of sight. His boots slip and he is soaked by the time he's passed the Tower, left leg wet and clammy, trousers sticking to his skin. It's bitingly cold. But he doesn't feel much of that either.
He wonders if he's broken.
Once he sees the Houses of Parliament looming above him, he slips under ground again. The sewers are vile, squealing rats moving about in packs, toxic fumes rising up, and water shimmering with oil where light still breaks through the surface. He holds his breath for a couple of steps each time, counts them to know when and where to turn. It's so dark the farther he distances himself from the Thames, rodents loitering around his feet, tunnel walls mossy and mouldy, and he can't see a fucking thing.
He knows that once he's counted to fifty-seven, he has to jump across to the other side and follow the tunnel west for another one hundred sixty-three, then turn the corner on the right hand side and continue north again until he can hear the bells of Westminster Abbey go off six times. Then it's east, just east for a very long time, until he can barely walk anymore, barely breathe, has to prop himself up against the walls, darkness occasionally interrupted by a few bars of light, distant noises accompanying them.
He climbs up and pushes the gully lid away with the last ounces of his strength. Lowndes Square lies there, peaceful and deserted, a fitting contrast to the jarring images clogging his head and he pulls his body through the opening, almost collapses face first onto the street. His body is screaming in pain and he is slowly starting to hear it –and it's deafening.
Black spots are dancing in front of his eyes as he drags himself to his feet again, and the last couple of yards to the marble stairs and the mahogany doors. He doesn't pass out once he reaches the porch, but his knees buckle and he has to catch himself on his hands, sharp pangs of pain searing up his arms instantly. Tasting bile in the back of his throat, he sits up against the black iron railing and blinks up at the door, takes a breath, and then another one.
All he wants to do is sleep.
He manages to lift his arm, and throws it against the wood in an attempt to knock. His knuckles collide with the door only once and his entire arm throbs with it. Cradling it against his chest, his arm still feels wet, like rainwater were running down his skin and when he finally glances downwards, and for a moment feels sharp enough to actually take in the sight of it, he realises that the hand peeking out of his coat sleeve is deep red. And then he notices the metallic scent; the dark stains of his trousers and shirt and coat, his entire body trembling with the sudden shock that hits him like tidal waves, again and again until he can barely keep his eyes open, paralysed from pain.
There's commotion behind the door and it's yanked open. He sees the blurry outlines of the butler in his dark suit, hears a high-pitched scream and words he doesn't understand before his world turns on its axis as he's lifted and carried over the threshold. Thundering steps echo through the entrance hall, as well as the butler's breathless “Your Grace!”as more doors slam against walls and chandeliers rattle
A voice is calling his name, or perhaps it's many voices blending into one. He tries to scramble away from the hands reaching for him instinctively and gets his feet to the floor, stumbling, back hitting the wall, and sending a heavy portrait down with a crash. It's wooden frame bursts, sound piercing in his ears and he feels the cabinet crashing down on him again, hears the hollow sound of the metal pipe crushing it on top of him, splinters flying around.
When a hand closes around his ankle, he kicks out and the noise level rises once more, but someone holds his legs down again, sits down on them, seizes his arms and holds him still. Then a palm connects with his face. The sudden impact and subsequent pain pull him straight back into the present.
“Fucking snap out of it!” Zayn. Another slap. “Louis, look at me!”
Louis blinks and his vision slowly sharpens despite his eyes watering after spending hours in the dark, not used to the electric lights flickering above his head. Zayn's face comes into focus and he looks pale and tired, like he hasn't slept all night and there's Harry, standing just there with red-rimmed eyes and wet cheeks. He's shaking so hard Louis can see the tremor in his crumpled shirt. Niall and Liam are by his side, looking stricken, the butler and two maids with hands clamped over their mouths.
“I said I'd come back,” Louis says to Harry, throat stinging. “I promised.”
Harry smiles weakly, wetly and sniffs once. “You did.” His voice sounds like he's been screaming for hours. Louis doesn't want to think about the implications.
“Lou,”Zayn pulls back his attention. “What the hell happened?”
Louis looks at him and he tries to make sense of the past couple of hours, this entire night and he guesses it's morning now, but he can't. He's just so fucking exhausted. “I don't know,” he replies, leaning his head back against the tapestry, forcing his eyes to remain opened. “It was so bloody dark.”
“But how -” and Louis knows Zayn is looking at his hands. He's looking at them too, bloody and cut open and dirty and full of splinters and shards. He knows they're all looking at his bloody, torn clothes and the bruises that are undoubtedly forming all over his skin.
“Not here.” Liam suddenly steps forwards, hunches down to Louis' and Zayn's level. “Let's just all calm down and get you out of the hallway, all right?”
He softly places a hand on Louis' left shoulder and the other one on his arm. Zayn moves off of his legs, but he makes a point of holding on tightly. Louis is so grateful for that. He thinks he'd fall apart otherwise.
“Can you walk?”
Louis wants to shrug, but his shoulders hurt so much he can't move them. “I can try,” he says, but he's not prepared for the sudden burst of pain shooting down his body when Liam and Zayn pull him to his feet. He hisses through his teeth and he sees that Harry flinches, but doesn't come closer. And Harry hangs back as they manoeuvre Louis down the hall and into a small sitting room.
He breathes out when he can lie down on an ottoman; head pulsing from exhaustion and limbs shaking like leaves. Niall closes the door behind them.
“Should I fetch Nick?” he asks and a surge of panic blooms in Louis' belly.
“No,” he exclaims immediately, keeping his battered hands cradled to his chest. “Don't call anybody. Please just –nobody else, all right?”
Niall nods stiffly, undoubtedly surprised by the outburst and Liam joins his side by the door. “We'll get some bandages and some ethanol. Probably Laudanum as well.” He points to Louis' hands. “That's going to hurt.”
Louis is aware of that. It's hurting already. Zayn sits down by his side and brushes hair off his forehead, stuck to his skin with blood and dirt. Harry's still so far away, not coming closer.
“What happened, Lou?” Zayn asks him again. “You were gone all night. I was worried sick. I thought -”He doesn't finish, but he doesn't need to either.
Louis swallows thickly. He really needs some water. “Remember Thomas?” he asks. “Skinny lad, missing half his teeth? He had a sister. Think she was deaf.”
“I think so,” Zayn answers, brows pulling together in confusion. “What's he got to do with everything? Haven't seen him in years.”
“He's dead.” He tries to force the sound out of his mind, the bile-inducing noise of Thomas' skull cracking under pressure, the wet splash of his blood over the floor, the gargled sound as he drew in his last breaths. Louis feels sick. “I –I ran into him when I was looking for the lads.”
Louis turns his head when he hears Liam and Niall re-entering the room, carrying some cloths, a bucket of water and a dark bottle. He takes a rattled breath and zeroes in on Zayn again, who looks even paler than before, lips parted.
“Somewhere around Liverpool Street Station. He caught up to me, said we were being followed. We ran away and tried to –to hide in this empty house but the doors were locked and he couldn't get away and…and I didn't do anything.” He'd felt paralysed, remembers being scared and frozen to the spot and just lying there and Louis knows he should've done something –anything –to help.
“Someone smashed his skull and I didn't do anything. I was hiding and I just –I didn't want to die.” His eyes are starting to water, and he doesn't want to cry in front of everyone, but he's too tired to hold it back. “He smashed the entire room to fucking pieces and I couldn't move.”
“Did you see who did this?”Liam asks, setting the supplies down on the small table next to the ottoman. “Maybe recognise him?”
Louis shakes his head, chews on his bottom lip. It tastes like blood. “No,” he says, voice trembling. “But I think he saw me.”
He is slowly coming back to himself, but that also means that Louis is rapidly starting to become aware of the ordeal he's been physically put through. There isn't a single part of him that doesn't hurt and even the tiniest movement causes his body to shake from pain. Still, he insists on not calling a doctor. Louis hasn't quite processed everything he's learned in the past hours, but he knows that the fewer people know about it, the better it will be for everyone involved.
Zayn stays glued to his side, touching whatever part of him that doesn't hurt quite as bad, refusing to dodge and Louis understands him perfectly, knows that this is how he'd behaved and he swallows every sound when Zayn's fingers dig in a tad too deep. Niall starts talking excitedly about his uncle who, apparently, is a surgeon and has taught him enough to be confident in removing the shards of glass from Louis' hands. After a couple of drops of Laudanum, Niall starts to pull out one shard after the other with scarily long and pointy tweezers and Louis feels faint watching him, knowing they'd been stuck in his hands all night, that he hadn't even noticed that some of them had sliced his palms practically open. He hadn't noticed the bleeding, nor the pain, running on nothing but shock and adrenaline. The wounds get disinfected and soon, Louis' hands are tightly wrapped in bandages and he fears that it's going to take quite some time to heal.
Throughout the entire process, Harry has remained stoically at the other side of the room, not pacing, but full of apparent nervous energy, so he might as well have been. His hair is in disarray and his lips are practically bitten raw, cheeks still reddened and eyes still bloodshot. He keeps shooting glances in Louis' direction, but he doesn't say a word and he doesn't come closer, which is almost jarring because usually, Harry can't get close enough. Louis wants him to, but he has no idea how to ask for it, words stuck in his throat, clueless how to proceed, what to do. He didn't mean to, and he promised to come back and he did and he's aware that he looks very much breakable at this point, yet all he wants is for Harry to press him tightly to his chest and listen to his heartbeat.
It's almost as if Harry senses his thoughts as he moves two steps towards Louis and then suddenly stops. Louis can see him swallow, Adam's apple bobbing up and down.
“I'll... I'll tell Mairie to get a bath ready,” he says and clumsily exits the room, fingers slipping on the door handle and letting it slam shut with a startling noise.
Louis can't suppress a flinch, hunching in on himself. He's aware of three pairs of eyes on him, but he doesn't know what they expect him to say or do. In the end, it's Niall who breaks the silence.
“Harry was losing his mind all night. I mean,” he says with a shrug, “we all were.”
“I didn't mean to worry you,” Louis replies, guilt settling in his gut.
Zayn lets out a humourless laugh. “Not exactly your fault some madman tried to kill you. But we couldn't even look for you when it got late. I'm still coughing up my damn lungs, and I encouraged you to check up on the lads, but then you didn't come back and I had no idea where to even start looking.”
“It's not your fault this happened,” Louis assures him.
“I know. But it's still bloody terrifying to see you like that.” Zayn quickly wipes at his eyes. “For a moment I really thought you were gone.”
“I'm not dead.”
“But even you have to admit it was a pretty close call this time.” He brushes his hands over his face one more time, then pulls Louis to his feet with Niall propping him up on the other side. “Let's get all that blood off you, eh? Starting to feel fucking nauseous.”
The spacious bathroom with the dark tiles and the bronze tub, filled with steam and warmth and comforting scents is so familiar to Louis at this point that he finds himself relaxing, tension seeping from his shoulders. His hands are practically useless all wrapped up, so Zayn steps up right in front of him and pushes Louis' ruined coat off of his shoulders. It falls to the floor with a soft thud, then Zayn moves on to the buttons.
Louis has to fight quite hard not to fall asleep, not to give in to his legs all but screaming at him because they simply can't carry his weight for much longer, when Harry enters the room.
“I brought some fresh clothes,” he announces quietly, keeping his gaze down and decidedly not looking at them, at Louis, as he sets the small pile down on a stool close to the tub. He turns almost immediately, looking to leave the room as quickly as he came, and Louis speaks up before the thought has even fully processed.
“Harry.” His voice breaks, a sting settling in his throat.
Harry freezes and turns around, eyes wide and so full of emotion that it's like a punch to Louis' already battered sternum. But he can't say anything else, doesn't know how to ask for whatever it is he needs, not even sure what that is. Absentmindedly, Louis registers that Zayn steps away from him and walks past Harry and straight out of the room, pulling the door shut behind his retreating back and suddenly they're alone for the first time since Louis collapsed on the porch.
He's not used to Harry being this distant and Louis has no clue how to deal with it, doesn't understand if Harry is angry or worried or simply fed up with everything that keeps happening simply because Louis is in his life. And now he can't even open his fucking mouth.
“I'm sorry,” he forces out eventually, and he might start crying any second. His bones feel brittle. “I'm so sorry I took so long, that I made you wait, and worry, but he was right behind me and I had to hide in the sewers. I think I got lost, because it was dark and I didn't think and –”
“Louis,” Harry says, ending his monologue and Louis pulls in a ragged breath. “Why are you apologising?” His eyelashes are wet, sticking together like spider webs.
“I don't –” Louis starts. “I promised I'd be back before morning.”
Harry sniffs loudly and brings both his hands up to rub over his face. When he drops them, tears are already spilling down his cheeks. “You almost died,”he says, surprisingly even.
“But I'm fine.”
“You're not fine!” Harry blurts out, voice so forceful it echoes around the room. “You're not fucking fine, stop pretending that you are! You didn't come home for hours and when I saw you in the hallway... for a second I thought you were –” He breaks off with a sob, his voice doing somersaults when he manages to continue. “You're all covered in blood and I don't even know if it's all yours, and you act like it's nothing. You shrug it all off and you say you're fine, but someone tried to kill you last night. Stop saying you're sorry!”
“What do you want me to say then?” Louis shoots back, eyes burning and heart racing painfully. “Do you want me to say that I was terrified out of my fucking mind all night? Do you want me to tell you that I watched how someone got his head smashed in? That I had to crawl through his blood and innards to get away? I had to spent the night in a dark sewage tunnel where I couldn't even see my own damn hands, so don't tell me I'm just shrugging this off as nothing. I'm surviving, and I'm trying not to lose my bloody mind here. If I got stuck on every bad thing that's ever happened to me I'd have chucked myself into the river when I was ten.”
Harry seems taken aback by that and he inches forward, but Louis' chest is heaving and he is not done.
“Don't tell me what to think or what to say, all right? I am scared. I've been scared every day for the past fucking decade. Death isn't exactly uncommon out there, or in my life, but that doesn't mean I'm not terrified of it. And the only thing that kept me from losing my mind was knowing that I needed to come back to you.”
Louis wants to rub at his eyes, but when he lifts his arms and sees his bandage mittens, it's suddenly too much. For just a second, he considers just simply smacking his hands against the brim of the tub. Then Harry's right there, gently encircling his wrists and stilling his arms and Louis feels all static air leave his body. Louis knows he’s shaking and feels that Harry is trembling just as much, if not more, when he wraps his arms around Harry's neck and Harry presses one of his hands to the small of his back, the other right between his shoulder blades.
Harry is tense for just another fraction of a second before his shoulders slump and he practically curls around Louis, face buried in the crook of his neck, hot and ragged breaths against Louis’ skin. The wetness soaks his collar as Harry starts to cry in earnest, thick sobs that tear at Louis’ heart as he holds on for dear life, digs his fingers into Harry’s solid back. His knees start to buckle and he can’t hold himself up anymore, sinks to the ground pressed against Harry and together they sit on the floor of the dimly lit bathroom, candles flickering around them and cry until the knots in their chests are finally undone.
Louis is suspended between sleep and consciousness. He feels Harry’s heartbeat steadily against his bare back, water absolutely still around them and lets his hand slide down Harry’s wet arm to intertwine their fingers.
“We could go to the sea,” Harry says; voice a soft, pleasant rumble in Louis’ ears. “My grandmother had a cottage on the Welsh Coast and we used to visit her in the summer before she passed away. There are mountains at your back while you’re facing endless beaches and the only sound to reach your ears is form the waves hitting the shore.”
“I’ve never been to the sea,” Louis mutters into the heated skin of Harry’s upper arm where small pearls of water are trickling down and drop into the tub.
“Then we’ll go. Get away from all of this. We can load the carriage with supplies to last us a month, maybe even two, and we can be gone by tomorrow.” He squeezes Louis’ hand. “There will be nobody but us for miles and we could wait for spring. Zayn could come as well, the air would do wonders for his lungs.”
“That sounds lovely,” Louis replies and it does, but it also sounds so bittersweet, because Louis knows it can’t happen. He knows he’s got to stay in London, got to say goodbye to Harry eventually, got to face up to the fact that somebody is out there looking for him, and not with good intentions.
Yet for now he can allow his mind to wander off, to try and imagine a small, white cottage sitting on the edge of a cliff, the windows opening out to the sea and the air smelling faintly of salt. He can imagine Harry in cotton trousers and a barely buttoned linen shirt, bare feet digging into the sand as he chases and runs away from the waves sliding up the beach, turning around to face him with a broad smile on his sun-kissed face.
It is cruel, Louis thinks, to make him yearn for a life he knows will never be his.
He sleeps through the day and only blinks awake when he can see the sun already setting through Harry’s bedroom windows. Louis groans when he shifts, bruised limbs protesting the movement, and startles when he finds Zayn sitting on the foot of the bed. Harry’s side of the bed is warm, mattress still dented from the weight of his body, so he hasn’t been gone for long. Louis assumes it’s got something to do with Zayn’s inquisitive and unrelenting gaze.
“Spill,” Zayn says then, as if on cue, raising his brows expectantly.
“What?”
“Don’t play dumb with me you twat.” Zayn looks better fed than he did a few weeks ago, but he’s still a skinny lad, shoulders a bit too broad, limbs a bit too long for his otherwise rather delicate frame, and yet he looks like he could knock anybody unconscious who dared to refuse to answer to him. “I’m not going to coddle you like the others, and I know when you’re not telling me something. What really happened?”
Louis swallows. His throat still feels like sandpaper. “I went to see James,” he replies, knowing full well that it’s no use to keep that from Zayn. He’d prod and ask and pinch and stare until Louis would give in eventually. “To ask if he’d heard anything, you know, strange happening. If he’d seen any creeps about. Who’d been the last victim.”
“And?”
He sits up and pulls the sheet up around his shoulders, still feeling cold. “Some Irish fella who’d worked in some factory. James knew him, but hadn’t seen him in a while. They found him early in the morning. But nobody’s seen anything; nobody’s heard anything. And the police aren’t even asking questions. Apparently nobody wants to catch whoever’s doing this.”
“But Liam said there was an investigation,” Zayn says, confusion evident in his eyes.
“Well, doesn’t seem to be true, does it?” Louis retorts with a shrug. “The streets are pretty fucking empty, I tell ya. Downright creepy.”
Zayn shuffles up the bed and reaches for Louis’ ankle through the cover, and holds on. “What else did James say?” because of course he knows that Louis hasn’t given him the entire story.
And Louis doesn’t want to. This is one thing he really isn’t ready to share, and he doubts he’ll ever be. Perhaps it’s nothing; he still hopes so. There’s sure to be another person named Louis in all of London. Yet there is a persistent tug right behind his sternum that is so unsettling he knows it’s just wishful thinking.
“Just that Ed played in front of the pub, how good he’s gotten, asked how all of us were doing and if we needed a job,” Louis says with a heavy feeling in his chest.
The look Zayn is levelling him with tells him that he doesn’t believe him quite blankly. “Louis, just –”
“It’s nothing,” Louis cuts him off impatiently, heart thundering away. “Everyone’s just going to blow it out of proportion when it probably was just a misunderstanding and I –”
“Lou. Fucking stop,” Zayn tells him, squeezing his ankle once. “Just tell me for now, and we can figure out if it was a misunderstanding or not, all right? But I swear to God, if you keep this from me and you end up dead because of it, I’ll bring you back to life just to fucking strangle you myself.”
They lock gazes like they’ve done so many times in the past decade, Louis slightly exasperated and Zayn slightly annoyed, or vice versa, and Louis is tired and fed up and Zayn’s always been more patient. He takes a deep breath and braces himself.
“James said someone was asking for me. My uncle.” Zayn looks at him blankly and Louis lowers his eyes, stares at the crisp white sheets in his lap. “I don’t have an uncle.”
The silence that follows is eerie. Zayn’s hand closing around his ankle goes tighter and tighter until Louis winces and pulls away, prompting Zayn to let go and Louis to look up again. Zayn’ lips are parted and his eyes are – they are so full of bloody fear that Louis feels a chill spread all over his body despite the fact that this room is heated and he’s buried beneath a mountain of blankets.
“I mean,” Louis starts, trying to lighten the mood instantly, because it’s crushing him, “he might’ve been asking about someone else. And even if he was asking about me, it might not be related to everything that’s going on.”
Zayn remains unnaturally pale and stoic, but he lifts one questioning brow. “You serious? Don’t tell me you believe that’s a coincidence.”
“It might be.”
“Louis, no.” Zayn shakes his head and he looks as unhappy about it as Louis is feeling at this point. It’s hard to admit, but it would be foolish to ignore. “Somebody is looking for you and all these lads that went to St. George’s start to turn up dead and they’re our age as well and –” He stops short, obviously distressed, biting his lip and twisting his hands into the sheets. “Fucking hell, Lou. What if that man wasn’t following you and Thomas at all? What if he found you? And Thomas just got in the way?”
For a moment, Louis thinks he has to throw up, but he swallows down the nausea, tries taking deep and even breaths, but his pulse is racing and his throat feels tight. “Just – why? What use would it be to anyone if I were dead?”
He pulls his knees up to his chest and hugs them tight, beds his head on them and directs his glance towards the window. There’s a line on the horizon, occasionally interrupted by black rooftops and smoking chimneys, which is so unnaturally red it looks like the darkening sky is dripping with blood. Louis still has the sound of it drenching and splattering all over the floor in his head, the smell of burned into his nose.
“I don’t know,” Zayn says quietly. “Is there any chance someone found out about you and Harry? Could it be that?”
“I don’t know,” Louis replies in earnest, muffled by the sheets. “I really don’t know.” His head hurts and he’s still so tired, he’s just always so bloody tired, but he’s terrified of closing his eyes; terrified of what he might see if he does.
“You need to tell him,” Zayn states the inevitable. “You need to tell them, actually. They could all help us, keep you safe, and maybe talk to the police –”
“No,” Louis replies with a humourless laugh, trying to keep his voice even. “I don’t know what’s going on, but the police isn’t doing anything. You haven’t been out there lately, but there are no patrols in the East End at night. There’s nobody on the fucking street and if you don’t think that’s fishy –”
“Then tell Harry,” Zayn insists, shuffling closer. “He’s in a better position to find out what’s going on and you’re safe here, all right? We need to keep you fucking safe. And we need to figure this out.”
Louis forces his eyes to stay glued to the slowly blackening sky. He can’t stomach Zayn’s pleading face and he can’t even begin to imagine how Harry would react were Louis to tell him that there might be someone out there trying to kill him, for whatever reason, but he also doesn’t know what else he is supposed to do. There are things at work he doesn’t understand and Louis is terrified and he’s confused and everything, just everything, is so unfair. One would assume he’d suffered enough for one short lifetime.
They shuffle into one of the sitting rooms a short while later, Louis propped up by Zayn because he still can’t put pressure on his left leg. A look in the mirror earlier as he’d gotten dressed had revealed an impressive collection of multi-coloured bruises. Three pairs of eyes instantly focus on them and Louis flinches inwardly. Harry is out of his seat immediately and comes up to Louis’ other side, helps him into one of the empty chairs by the table and moves his own closer, rests one hand on Louis’ thigh.
Zayn digs his elbow into Louis’ side. Louis clears his throat.
“There’s a few things I should tell you,” he starts and realises they’re all tensing up already, which isn’t exactly a brilliant start. “Make of it what you will, but – anyway. I went to see a friend of ours last night. He runs a pub in Shoreditch and he knows every single person in the East End, what everybody’s up to… So I asked him if he knew anything about what’s been going on.”
“What did he say?” Harry asks immediately, fingers digging deeper into Louis’ thigh.
“Nothing. I mean – he knows nothing. Nobody’s seen anything, nobody’s heard anything, and nobody’s talking about it. And… usually there’s always a couple of officers asking questions, but James said they’re not investigating, it seems.”
“But I talked to Commissioner Cowell,” Liam throws in and Louis lifts his gaze to see him wrinkle his forehead in confusion. “He said that they were investigating a pattern, but they didn’t have many leads.”
“People lie,” Zayn responds in a flat voice, unimpressed. “Probably just trying to appease the few of you lot who actually believe in justice for all. No offence.”
“None taken,” Niall throws in easily, apparently the only one in the room who isn’t slowly losing his mind. “So there’s no proper investigation, eh? Your man James got any clue what’s happening then?”
Louis and Zayn exchange a quick glance. “Not really,” Louis concedes and takes a deep breath. “But, well. He said… he said someone came into his pub, asking for me. Saying that he was my uncle.”
The silence that follows is uncomfortable and tense. Louis drops his gaze to his lap, starts fiddling with the creases of his trousers where they’re bunched up around his knees. He tries to ignore the rigidness of Harry’s hand, entirely white as his skin is stretched tightly over his knuckles.
“Before you ask,” he continues with a tight voice, “I don’t have an uncle. And I don’t know why anyone would ask for me.”
“Shit,” Niall comments, probably voicing everyone’s thoughts. “You sure he was looking for you?”
He’s about to open his mouth when Zayn beats him to it. “We’re not sure but – every lad that’s been killed was our age. And all of ‘em had to leave St. George’s around the time we were thrown out.” He throws another look into Louis’ direction, biting his lip. “If that’s just a coincidence, it’s a fucking big one. I think someone might’ve caught wind of,” he waves his hand about, “you know, this.”
It’s a possibility, Louis is aware of that, and the others seems to ponder on it for a few moments as well but –
“Remember when you told me and the lads about the body they’d found, gutted near the brewery?” he asks Zayn, waiting for the curt nod in response to continue. “That was before I started meeting Harry. So… if we’re going to assume they’re all tied together, then it can’t have anything to do with that, can it?”
There’s a rapid patter underlining the silence, drops of rain getting blown against the softly rattling window. The trees that line Lowndes Square are bent, branches getting torn into every direction and the sky is black, not a single star in sight. It’s a fittingly gloomy setting for a discussion about the possible causes of someone wanting him dead, Louis figures with a slight chill to his bones.
He takes a look at Niall and Liam, both at the other side of the small table, looking restless and pale and confused as hell. Louis doesn’t blame them for it. Looking at Harry might potentially break Louis’ heart, so he opts to intertwine their fingers on his thigh instead. Harry gives his hand a thankful squeeze.
“Is there anything else that could have triggered this?” Liam starts again after clearing his throat. “Any reason someone could want to do you harm?”
Louis doesn’t know if he’s thankful that Liam avoids directly saying that someone might be out to kill him. “I have nothing,” he says after he swallows around the lump in his throat. “No money, no things of value, nothing. So, you know, nobody would gain anything if I were to die.”
Harry’s hand tightens around his hard enough to make his bones scrape. Louis thinks he squeezes back just as much.
“Any enemies?” Liam goes on, but Louis shakes his head.
“I’m not important enough to have any. Listen, I know you want to help and all, but I honestly got no idea, all right?” He rubs his free hand over his heavy eyes and tries to find a spot on the tapestry to focus on. “After the orphanage, I kept my head down. Stayed out of trouble, unless you count in the couple of pockets I picked. There are probably not more than a dozen people who even know I exist.”
Zayn gets up suddenly, legs of his chair scraping over the carpet and Louis is so strained that he flinches, watches with wide eyes as Zayn paces back and forth, arms wound tightly around his skinny frame, shoulders hunched, chewing on his lips like he wants to eat them for dinner.
“They knew who you were though, didn’t they?” he asks suddenly and, when Louis raises his brows in question, clarifies, “the people at St. George’s. I never had any papers to begin with, but you did, right? They keep records of whoever gets placed there, and they probably keep a record of when they toss ‘em out.”
“A register,” Louis concludes when he realises where Zayn is going with this. “I guess they had my birth certificate. Probably kept it too, when they tossed us out.”
“And if anyone were to start looking for you,” Zayn goes on, voice rising with his excitement, “that’s where the track stops. The only thing they’d be able to find out would be your age and when you left. So… that leaves some room for error, doesn’t it?”
He tries to ignore the way his stomach is turning. It’s entirely empty, has been for two days, so Louis doubts he’d be able to throw up anything other than bile, but the thought of other people dying in his stead makes him feel sick all the way down to his bones.
“But,” he begins, grappling for the words that seem to be slipping off his tongue, “it still makes no sense. It still doesn’t explain why anyone would even want me dead.”
“It doesn’t”, Liam says, still cutting a stoic figure in his chair. “But there are only a few people who could have access to orphanage records.”
It drops like an anvil. Louis’ heart slides down to his gut. He looks at Harry, who’s remained quiet for their entire exchange, and he looks so distressed, and as sick as Louis’ feeling, chalk-like skin and bloodshot eyes.
“Like Scotland Yard,” Harry speaks up suddenly, voice barely above a whisper and tears his hand away from Louis’ grasp. He stands up and with a few strides comes to stand in front of the windows, back turned to them, arms folded tightly in front of his chest.
“Like people in high places,” Niall adds with a sigh, eyes flickering between Harry and Louis. “People with influence.”
Zayn lets out a humourless laugh, dropping back down in his chair like dead weight. “No fucking wonder nobody’s investigating. Corrupt bastards, the lot of them.”
Louis takes in a rattled breath and brings his legs up to his chest, wraps his arms around his shins and presses them so close to his body that his bruised ribs throb with pain. It’s the only things that anchors him, the fact that he still aches, still breathes, is still alive, because he seems more and more removed from reality and shoved into a bitterly cruel world where he gets to have Harry in his life, but only in exchange for a conglomeration of powerful people who want him dead for no reason.
Harry is still not turning around, so Louis buries his nose in the crook of his elbow, smells the shirt that still smells like him. It’s possible that he is slowly but steadily losing his mind. He figures there’s only so much a person can take before they go insane.
It’s still raining.
“Louis,” Liam cuts through the frigid silence, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the dark mahogany table, “are you sure you can’t think of anything that might have happened, even a while ago? Or anyone who could hold a grudge against you?”
“There’s nothing,” Louis says straight away, because he’s already spent a lot of time thinking about it, raking through his brain and trying to remember. But he’s telling the truth, he’s always been very careful since his family passed away, not trusting people with his full name, or even his first name. “Seriously, how could I possibly bring the wrath of someone upon me, who’s influential enough to demand official records from a government-funded orphanage? I spent the last ten years on the street, scrubbing floors and sleeping in the sewers, selling papers and –”
He stops short; biting his tongue, because he is so frustrated and so fed up. Louis doesn’t understand a single fucking thing about this.
“I stole, all right?” he continues after a few beats, staring at the colourful pattern of the carpet, avoiding the others’ eyes. “At train stations, in Opium dens, on busy roads. We all did, whenever we could, whatever we could carry. That is the expanse of my crimes. That doesn’t set me apart from anyone else. It doesn’t explain why anyone would want to come after me specifically.”
“What about your father?”
Louis turns to Harry so quickly he almost gives himself whiplash. “What?”
“Your father,” Harry repeats, slowly turning around with a grief-stricken face, eyes wide and wet.
His hackles rise. “What about him?”
Harry drops his gaze to his feet, then flicks it up again, uncertain and nervous and apologetic. “He was in prison.”
For some inexplicable reason, Louis’ heart suddenly starts pounding away, painfully heavy in his chest, as if his subconscious was already picking up whatever it is Harry is trying to imply here. Three pairs of eyes are burning against his neck, but Louis refuses to look at them, lump settling in his throat.
“He wasn’t a criminal,” Louis spits out defensively, “if that’s what you’re trying to say.”
“I’m not trying to say anything, I’m –”
“What, Harry? You think he did something so bad that his son still has to pay for it?”
It’s unfair, Louis knows he’s being unfair, but it’s like Harry has laid him out bare in front of everyone and he feels vulnerable enough as it is.
“That’s not what I’m saying,” and he takes a step closer to Louis, and then another, and then another. Louis shrinks in on himself, wants to hide himself away and forget all about it. “I’m asking if you remember what they convicted him of. Perhaps he came in contact with the wrong people.”
“He was a teacher. He taught literature and philosophy at a private school. And after work, he came home to us and he read us stories.” Louis swallows thickly, has to bite back tears because he’d almost forgotten. His memories keep fading, moving farther into the distance with each day that passes and sometimes Louis even forgets to miss them. “My father was a good man. He worked hard and he loved his family and he didn’t put a foot wrong, so I don’t know how he could have done anything. There was no opportunity for him to do wrong, no strange friends and no suspicious activities and –”
It hits Louis out of nowhere like a slap to his face, cold and harsh, and he freezes. Harry moves to crouch down next to him, reaches out for Louis’ hand, but he barely registers it. He’s hit by the image of a dark hallway and the door to their living room, slightly ajar, golden light coming from a few lit candles and voices talking passionately.
“Louis?”
“Every other week,” he comes out of his stupor, not recognising his voice, “he’d have a few people over after dinner. Usually my mother always allowed me to stay up a tad longer than my sisters and sit with them living room. But when these friends came over, she always sent me to bed early, and I was never allowed to meet them.”
He dreams about these evenings, he suddenly realises with a start. For some reason, they had always remained in the back of his mind, sitting there quietly until he had to close his eyes. Maybe his own head had been trying to tell him something, to draw his attention to what had been happening all these years ago and he’d never given it a second thought.
Harry’s fingers trail up and down his arm, stopping just above the bandages that still cover his hands, in a soothing manner, suddenly calm and collected. “Do you remember who they were? Or why they were meeting?”
“Maybe what they were talking about?” Liam adds.
Louis shakes his head. It’s starting to ache like the rest of his body. “I don’t fucking know. I can barely remember. I just don’t bloody know anything anymore.” He fumbles for Harry’s hand, is grateful when he immediately holds on tight. “There weren’t that many of them. But they were all talking, so many voices mixed together. I hid in the hallway sometimes and tried to listen, but I just – I don’t remember.”
“Maybe we should have a break,” Niall suggests to the room at large. “I think we all need a decent night’s sleep, eh?”
Louis hears him, but the words don’t sink in. His mind is still replaying random scenes, snippets of memories that might be half-true or completely false. But he’s still crouching in the hallway, looking at the door and trying to listen in because he is just so damn curious, and he wants to know why his mother found it so urgent that he go to bed on time, in such a hurry that she forgot to light a candle by his beside and now everything except for the sitting room is so dark.
They are arguing, the voices are raised, and Louis can pick out his father amidst the mess. He tries to get closer, wooden floor hard beneath his knees as he crawls forward. There is a faint smell of cigars distinguishable now, the clinking of glasses, pen on paper, quiet rustling. Someone keeps walking up and down, occasionally throwing a shadow out into the hall. His mother is in the kitchen.
Louis thinks he falls asleep right next to the door, because he just blinks once, and suddenly the door is open and he’s staring up at an unfamiliar face. He scrambles to his feet and stumbles back, heart pounding because that man’s gaze is penetrating and unfriendly and it sends shivers down his spine.
“And who have we here?” he’d said, standing there in a dark coat and shimmering cufflinks, something pinned to his chest, light catching on the metallic shape, staring down at him until his father appears at his side.
“Go to bed, Louis, right this second,” and he runs off.
“There was a man,” Louis says. “He was old. Or at least he had white hair. He had some sort of… decoration, an order, maybe a medal.” He still feels slightly detached and light-headed, screwing his eyes shut to block out the pain throbbing between his temples.
“Could be military,” he hears Niall say.
“It could also mean some other sort of official,” Liam adds quietly, apparently deep in thought already. “A member of Parliament, even.”
“Holy cow.”
“Let us just – go to bed, all right?” Harry cuts them off, moving to slide an arm around Louis’ shoulder. “Niall is right, we all need some sleep, we need to clear our heads and calm down.”
Louis lets himself be pulled to his feet, Zayn already at his other side because his legs aren’t really cooperating at the moment. His head is still spinning. Nausea is spreading through his belly.
“Brilliant, I’m knackered,” Niall announces, getting up as well and he stretches unceremoniously. “I’ll tell Paul to keep his eyes and ears open though, eh?” He tips an imaginary hat and is out the door before one of them can utter another word.
Liam is a bit slower in standing up and he has his eyes locked on Louis. A crease is visible between his brows. “Can I just ask, Louis, if that’s fine with you… What’s your surname?”
Louis blinks at him. For an embarrassing moment or two, he can’t think of it. “Tomlinson,” he says then with a sigh. “It’s Tomlinson.”
He hasn’t said that name in years.
That night, Harry clings to him, unwilling to let go, apparently feeling the need for them to touch in as many places as possible. He curls himself around Louis’ back and holds him against his chest, palm placed flat on Louis’ chest to feel his heartbeat. He holds on a little to tight and Louis is still hurting and splattered with bruises, but he shoves it to the side, leans back against Harry’s chest and allows the warm breaths against the nape of his neck to lull him into a dreamless sleep.
But he’s still awake when Harry whispers a quiet “I love you” into his skin.
Liam is already there in the early hours of the morning. When Louis walks into one of the sitting rooms, Harry right at his back, still needing to stay close, he has a few papers in front of him and he looks like he hasn’t slept a single minute.
“I found out the charges against your father,” he says without preamble and with a blank expression. “He received the death penalty for high treason. According to the arrest warrant from Scotland Yard… he was responsible for an assassination attempt on His Majesty Crown Prince Edward.”
to be continued.
Chapter 7: VII.
Summary:
He sits alone in the garden, rain drizzling softly over his quivering form, until his hands are starting to show a soft, bluish tinge, veins shimmering through skin stretched tightly over his bones. Everything feels brittle and frail and so much like a nightmare that Louis digs his numb fingers into the frozen ground until they hurt, until the frost is about to burn his skin. With every sting of pain he can convince himself that this is the absurdity his life has suddenly turned into.
Notes:
DISCLAIMER: I do not own, nor do I know the people featured in this story. Their characterization is based on my personal perception of them and I do not claim that this is in any way related to the truth. Key word: FICTION.
A/N: This is the second to last chapter, and still quite heavy on the plot. The way I have things planned, there will be the eighth and final chapter, as well as an epilogue added shortly after, and then this will be done. Already, thanks to everyone who's reading and everyone who has bookmarked it to read after its completion, the feedback has been amazing.
Once more, special thanks to Brit for being amazing and brilliant. I love you very much.A/N 2: Check out this amazing artwork by karukara! Still blown away!
Chapter Text
CHAPTER VII.
“There are moments when even to the sober eye of reason, the world of our sad humanity may assume the semblance of Hell. ”
Edgar Allan Poe
+++
“He didn’t do it.”
He has stopped counting the times he’s said this in the past hour, eyes set stoically on the table. Someone – might have been Mairie, Louis hasn’t been paying attention – has placed a few plates of food on it; bacon, eggs, black pudding, steaming tea and cream and the rich smell is making him feel nauseous. Louis wraps the blanket sitting on his shoulders tighter around his frame to hide how deeply his fingers are continuously digging into his arms as he tries to keep everything together. He can feel the cracks widening, edges sharp and cutting him open.
“I know it must be difficult to accept –” Liam starts for the umpteenth and yet again, he cuts him off, anger seething hotly in his chest, pressure of his own fingernails so much Louis knows he’s breaking skin through his shirt. And it shouldn’t feel good.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Louis presses through his teeth, eyes flashing up to pierce through Liam who is sitting at the other end of the table. He looks like one of the hound puppies loitering around Old Street, right before one of the butchers breaks their neck in their fists. “I’m not going to accept something that is a lie. I don’t care what’s in these files and I don’t care what you think. He didn’t do it. He wouldn’t.”
“There is a signed confession,” Liam tries, doing an impressive job of keeping his voice calm and even. “It states that he was the one pulling the strings.”
“I don’t care,” Louis repeats. His mouth tastes like bile and there is still a cup of tea sitting right in front of him, one that Harry had insisted on pouring, but he knows that if he were to take a sip, he’d actually be sick. “He wasn’t a criminal. It wasn’t him.”
Liam is about to reply again when Niall – who’s rushed in from God knows where smelling like a concoction of sweet perfumes – leans forward. He looks like he hasn’t slept at all, and his cheeks are flushed. “How easy is it for someone to forge a confession?”
“What do you think?” Zayn throws in, twirling a butter knife between his fingers. He hasn’t touched the food either. “You want to know how many people I know who could get you anything from a birth certificate to an arrest warrant? If you have the money, you can get anything you want. You lot should know that, shouldn’t you?” He turns his head, gaze meeting Louis’. “If Lou says his father didn’t do it, he didn’t. Wouldn’t be the first time someone had to pay for other people’s crimes. And guilty or not, one man can’t assassinate the Crown Prince. There must’ve been others.”
“Well,” Liam replies, quickly shuffling through the papers, brows pulled together in concentration as he skims over the pages. Suddenly, they shoot up and he stills. “There were three other arrests on the same day, all tied to the assassination attempt. But all three men were pardoned just a week later.”
For the first time since they started this far too early in the morning, Harry speaks up, but his hand remains on Louis’ thigh, mildly applying pressure. “But that’s not – nobody would get pardoned for High Treason. An attack against the Crown doesn’t necessarily mean they’d get executed on the spot, but they’d at least spend a lifetime in prison.”
“Unless they made a deal.”
All heads turn to face him. Louis wants to shrink back on himself, wants to give in to the pressure that’s crushing his chest, stop breathing and perhaps make all these images and thoughts flooding his mind disappear. He feels ill, defending a man he knows as his father and still loves and admires so much, yet doesn’t seem to remember much of. When Louis closes his eyes, he sees a blurred face and thick-rimmed glasses and he still hears a faint echo of his voice, firm but kind. But he’s not even sure he’d recognise him on the street, memories of loss so jarring that he’d shoved everything to the back of his head. He just hopes he’s not wrong.
Louis swallows around the lump in his throat. “Up north, our neighbours had chickens. They kept them outside in a small hut. We made a game out of picking the eggs and one day, we forgot to shut the door. The chickens got out, and a farmer’s dog tore them to bloody pieces.” He shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath through his nose. “They accused me of doing it, because I was usually the one who got into trouble. But it hadn’t been me that time. I wanted to tell my father, but he wouldn’t allow me. He said – he said he’d rather have a son who protected his friends, than a son who told on them. I never told him who really did it. And he never punished me for it.”
His eyes are burning when he lifts his gaze again. “He was an idealist. Even if he knew the actual wirepuller, he wouldn’t have given him up. If they interrogated him, if they wanted him to sell out his so-called accomplices, he wouldn’t have done it. I guess the others took the bait in his stead.”
The words sink in silence. It’s still raining, still grey and dark and cold outside the window, ghastly shadows distorting contours and making the square look like a grotesque caricature drawn in ink. There is no way of telling if the sun has risen already.
Louis finds it hard to breathe.
“If the only evidence against him was the word of his accomplices, why was he arrested?” Niall throws into the room at large, loosening his necktie and tossing it over his shoulder. It lands on the carpet with a barely audible thud.
“See, this is where I got a little perplexed,” Liam confesses, shuffling more of his papers, obviously searching for a specific document. “Because the other three that were arrested all have criminal records. Very minor, I have to admit, but all tied to political protests. They weren’t members of the opposition, but they were part of the Liberal Party.”
Louis doesn’t know much about politics. He’s always skimmed through the papers and he’s always found it easy to absorb information, but he doesn’t care for it. And something tells him his father hadn’t either.
“My father didn’t belong to any party,” he says.
“It certainly doesn’t seem like he belonged to one,” Liam admits. “I could have missed something because I hardly had any time to go through the records, but even if he was a member of the Liberal Party, he certainly wasn’t a very prominent one.”
Louis can tell how the penny drops simultaneously across the room.
“So,” Niall says, drawing out the vowel for a moment. “I guess that means he can’t have been pulling the strings, huh?”
“I guess not,” Louis breathes out, wanting to get out and bury himself in the backyard.
He doesn’t know why he’s suddenly feeling worse instead of better, seeing that it’s starting to become quite clear that his father had been innocent of the crimes he’d been charged for. After all these years of doubting and being confusing and not knowing what to believe, Louis finally has clearance. It should make the painful knot in his chest unfold; it should lift the weight that’s making his shoulders ache. But for some reason, this is worse than anything Louis could have predicted. His father is dead because he didn’t want to tell the truth, because he had protected a group of people who in return didn’t hesitate to sacrifice his life for theirs.
He is dead because he cared more for his ideals than the welfare of his family. Louis doesn’t want to start hating him, but he can’t help but think of their home, destroyed and torn apart; glass and porcelain shards on the floor, ripped curtains, wadding spilling out of cushioned chairs and so many lose paper leaves, flying through the air like a flock of birds just after the summer. His mother, kneeling in the centre with an ashen face, cradling his youngest sister to her trembling chest.
Louis doesn’t want to hate him. But it’s becoming very difficult not to.
His arms are still tightly wrapped around his torso and Louis is sure his shirt is already stained red where his fingers dig into his upper arms. Still, he tries to force down the nausea and the dizziness and the ever-growing anger, desperate to keep his voice steady.
“Did you find anything else about him?” he directs a question at Liam, ignoring the scrape of Harry’s chair over the carpet as he moves closer.
“Well,” Liam starts, pulling out a few pages of what appears to an old newspaper article, “this is the only piece of evidence that was on record. It’s a theoretical discourse by M. Tomlinson, published in The Daily Telegraph.”
“A theoretical discourse on what?” Louis asks, heart pounding and for some reason, he thinks he knows the answer already.
Liam moves the plates aside, food and tea long gone cold, and slides the newspaper pages across the table. Louis doesn’t dare to reach for them. He suddenly sees it clearly in front of him; manuscripts in his father’s studies, a book always open on his desk in a language he didn’t understand.
He almost flinches when Harry takes it instead and reads the title out loud.
“Friedrich Engels’ The Condition of the Working Class in England, a discussion on England’s industrial monopoly and its effects on social welfare and equality.”
Louis knows the book. Of course he does. His father had talked about it a lot, about Engels’ observations and related theories. He’d translated large parts of it, but always kept the German original close to him. It’s not close anymore. Louis knows that as well, because he’s got it hidden beneath the floorboards of their room in Whitechapel.
“Who’s Engels again?” Niall tears him away from his thoughts. “One of them communists, right? The one with the beard?”
“That’s Marx,” Harry corrects him almost absentmindedly and Louis feels his eyes burn into his neck, followed by a hand on his shoulder. “Your hands, love.”
Louis whips his head around to face him, blinking. “What?”
“Your hands,” Harry repeats with concern. “They’re bleeding again.”
He looks down where the blanket has slid from his shoulders, revealing his still bandaged hands clamped around his arms. His wrapped up palms are soaked red and it’s seeped over to his shirt, looking gruesome and most likely more severe than it is. “Shit,” he says eloquently and watches numbly as Harry carefully pulls his hands towards him and starts peeling away the crimson cloths.
“I’ll get some new ones,” Niall announces and gets up, leaving the room with quick strides.
“So, my father was a communist,” Louis say in lieu of addressing his bloody hands.
“Not necessarily,” Harry retorts. “It’s a discussion on an observatory book. Don’t you want to read the article?”
“Not particularly,” Louis confesses, wincing when the cloths stuck to his skin get pulled off. “I’m glad he wasn’t a criminal. I’m glad he didn’t try to assassinate Prince Edward. But I’m not interested in whatever it is he felt so passionate about that it turned him into a fucking martyr who abandoned his family.”
“That’s a bit harsh,” Zayn throws in and Louis turns to look at him.
“Really? You think so?”
He shrugs. “He probably tried to protect you. I mean, sure, the other guys might’ve sold him out, but if someone wanted the blame on your father, he could’ve threatened him; told him that they’d harm his family if he didn’t ‘fess up.”
Before Zayn has the chance to add anything, Niall walks back in and crouches down in front of Louis, making quick work of re-applying the bandages to his hands. He returns to his chair, shrugs out of his jacket and opens the top three buttons of his shirt.
“I think Zayn might be onto something,” Liam speaks up after a moment of quietness. Louis tries to focus, but he feels dizzy. Harry is still holding his hands. “All of this could mean that someone is trying to get rid of all the evidence.”
“My mother and sisters died of cholera,” Louis weakly protests. He hasn’t been up for very long, but this day has already stretched into an uncomfortable length. It’s probably not even close to midday. “They weren’t killed.”
“Maybe they died before – you know,” Zayn suggests. “And maybe whoever is behind all of this shit overlooked that you survived.”
“This is insane.” He has trouble keeping his eyes locked with Zayn’s, and he can barely keep his voice even. “Why now? Why didn’t they kill me when I was fucking ten years old?”
These awkward silences that stretch on for far too long are starting to grind on Louis’ nerves and he would get up and try to walk off his nerves if he could be certain not to have his legs give out underneath him. Now more than ever, he wishes he could just disappear into the ground and never resurface, or that he could go back to a certain point in the past and undo everything that’s happened. But then he looks at Harry’s hands encircling his and his heart constricts painfully and it hurts and Louis just wishes that he had any fucking clue as to what to do.
“What if they only found out now?” and it’s a special kind of cruel for it to be Harry who’s breaking this to him. “One of the people your father met with… He might have been a politician and… The first time I saw you was outside the Houses of Parliament. What if – what if he saw you there as well? What if he recognised you, and sent someone to look for you and…”
Harry trails off, looking sickly, and Louis feels so too. He shoots to his feet, rapidly, startling everyone and tearing his arms out of Harry’s grasp. His chair topples over, hitting the floor with a crash and Louis nearly trips over its legs as he moves away from the table.
“I need air,” he manages to get out before turning on his heels.
Louis nearly slips on the carpet, nearly stumbles down the stairs and rattles at the door leading out the back until the lock gives way and he can step out, gulp in first breaths of fresh air laced with rain, wet and herby at the back of his throat.
It’s not raining anymore, but the air is still fuzzy with wetness, tiny drops suspended around him, clinging to every surface. The clouds are hanging low, meeting the dark hedges that give his surroundings a resinous scent, completely caging the garden in and shielding it off from everything around it. If he squints, Louis can just about make out the neighbouring mansions. Different nuances of grey meet in soft tufts above his head. Everything is eerily quiet, and freezing cold.
The grass crunches slightly as he walks across it, startling him more than it should. He’s only wearing socks and the dampness immediately soaks through them, triggering his nerve endings and making him feel more like himself again. Louis rubs his arms, feels his sleeves slide over cooling skin, relishes the way it slowly breaks out in goosebumps.
The garden is well kept considering the season; considering everything must’ve been covered in snow until only a short while ago. Someone has been meticulously trimming the murky green lawn and taming the still leafless shrubs. Skinny twigs break through the ground, intertwined and stretched upwards towards the sky. It looks like human remains clawing their way to the surface.
Louis stops smack dab in the middle of the lawn and sinks down, soaking his pants and the blanket as well as his socks. His head is sitting heavily between his shoulders and it seems like the pressure that’s been constantly building up there is finally becoming too much to bear. He’s stretched paper thin, nerves a single thread struggling to keep it all together and he doesn’t even know where to enforce it. It’s overwhelming, all these sudden revelations Louis realises now he could very well live without. Part of him had always hoped for explanations as to why his world had to fall apart all at once, yet now that he knows (or at least thinks he does), he would’ve much preferred to continue his life in ignorance.
It’s hard knowing that his father had been content to abandon them in order to stand up for his beliefs, and it’s even worse knowing that had his mother and sisters not died of cholera mere months after his execution, someone would have come after them to erase all traces of their existence, to ensure that the one person who’s most likely been holding the strings in their hands all this time would walk away unscathed. Louis guesses it’s rather ironic that he’d caught the attention of the actual villain of this twisted tale in the same place he’d caught Harry’s.
His body is seized by a shudder as he imagines this person seeing and recognising him and Louis feels cold when he thinks about all the lads that died in his stead because of – because of what? Nothing but a fucking load of bad luck and being mistaken for him in the dark alleys of East London.
Louis never knew that guilt could weigh quite as heavily. It’s hard to breathe properly even in the crisp midday air.
He sits alone in the garden, rain drizzling softly over his quivering form, until his hands are starting to show a soft, bluish tinge, veins shimmering through skin stretched tightly over his bones. Everything feels brittle and frail and so much like a nightmare that Louis digs his numb fingers into the frozen ground until they hurt, until the frost is about to burn his skin. With every sting of pain he can convince himself that this is the absurdity his life has suddenly turned into.
When a second pair of feet walks across the lawn to where Louis’ sitting, he’s not as startled as he probably should be, taken how off-balanced and easily startled he’s been lately. But he very much expected someone to follow him, even sooner than now. What does perhaps not startle as much as surprise him is that it is Liam who crouches down next to him.
Louis turns to face him. Liam’s draped a heavy, woollen coat over his shoulders and he’s wearing shoes, which is a smart choice, because Louis is beginning to feel really bloody cold.
“I wanted to apologise,” Liam tells him after a beat, surprising Louis for the second time in under a minute.
“For what?”
“For acting the way I did,” he elaborates, looking down at his folded hands, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles. “And for saying things the way I did. It wasn’t my place to assume, and it wasn’t my place to judge. And it certainly wasn’t my place to question you.”
Louis finds him hard to read. He’s like two contradicting people put into one body; one moulded by his upbringing into a flawless member of their society, and the other nothing more than Harry’s childhood friend who’s trying to do what’s right.
“You barely know me. I don’t blame you for that.”
Liam lifts his shoulders up to his ears, drops them slowly. “But Harry does. And I’ve known him all my life. I should have just,” and he makes a vague motion with his right hand, obviously mulling over his next choice of words. “You said your father wasn’t guilty. And I should have believed you. So I want to say that I’m sorry for not doing so.”
It’s Louis turn to shrug, but his shoulders feel so heavy he doesn’t know if they move at all. “Don’t worry. I don’t even – I mean, it would’ve been easier if he’d done it. Wouldn’t be in this situation if he’d really been a radical communist or whatever it says in that damn file.”
Liam sits down. He pulls a face as the damp grass undoubtedly wets his trousers as well. “Don’t say that. If everything we’re assuming turns out to be right, then he was a good man. He was very brave, actually.”
He resists the urge to snort. “I’d have rather he’d been a fucking coward. What use is knowing he was brave and thought he was a bloody martyr? It got him killed. If he’d been a coward, at least he’d have stayed alive.”
He’s grateful that Liam doesn’t respond to that, because if Louis has to think about his father for another second, he’s going to fucking cry. And as much as boundaries have been shattered between the two of them over the past few days, he’s not ready for Liam to see him cry. There’s still a small piece of dignity Louis would like to hold onto. So he takes a deep breath and swallows the lump lodged in his throat, pushing past the ache in his chest.
It’s perhaps time to head back inside, because Louis can’t feel his toes or fingertips anymore, but walking back into this house inevitably means confronting all that has been said today and discussing what they could do, what they’re even able to do if this is all tangled with parties and politicians and influential people who have others killed without second thought. Louis isn’t ready to face that just yet, and he isn’t ready to face the people who are waiting for him in there.
He isn’t ready to face Harry.
Of course, this is the moment Liam finds his voice again and says almost bashfully, “Harry loves you very much.”
And this time, Louis can’t help the snort that slips out from between his lips, but when the sound reaches his ears, it’s broken off and hoarse and rather resembles a choked sob. “God.” He desperately tries to keep the mess in his head locked up. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s true though,” Liam insists, meaning well, Louis doesn’t doubt it. “He’d do anything for you and – he’s the best person I know, with the biggest heart.”
“I know,” Louis presses through his teeth, “God, I know. But you need to stop saying that.”
“Why?”
“Because I need you to be rational!” Louis exclaims, wiping furiously at his suddenly wet cheeks and pushing himself to his feet with quivering knees. “Do you understand? I need you to be realistic, because I can’t –” He takes a rattling breath. Liam is looking at him, eyebrows pulled together, with a puzzled expression. “No matter what happens, this isn’t going to end well. It just can’t. I know that, and you know that, too. If, by whatever miracle, we find a way to solve this bloody mess, there is still no place for Harry and I. Even if he loves me and… and I do as well, it’s not worth anything. Love isn’t worth a fucking thing and I need you to understand that, because Harry doesn’t. And when all of this comes crashing down, you need to tell him that it had to be that way.”
Liam takes a cautious step towards him, and then hesitates. “What are you saying?”
The numbness is spreading through his body. He thinks he once heard that freezing is the most pleasant way to die, like falling asleep, feeling no pain. It’s probably not how he’s going to go.
“Tell him to move on. Take care of him, and just – tell him to forget me.”
He doesn’t mean to say it like that, but he’s simply tired of overthinking everything that’s in his head, yet seeing Liam’s face when the words reach him makes Louis realise that he should’ve kept this to himself.
“Why does this sound like –”
He doesn’t manage to finish. Harry is standing in the door leading back into the house, socked feet on the small porch, calling his name with a worried expression, but smiling softly when Louis looks at him. Louis smiles back, as much as he can at this moment, but the corners of his eyes still feel wet, and the air doesn’t quite reach his lungs when he takes it in.
Liam’s gaze is burning against the side of his face and Louis’ heart starts to sink, but then Harry steps out, a woollen blanket draped over one arm, and Liam decides that this is his time to leave. He walks to the door with a long, grave look in Louis’ direction, but he remains silent, pats Harry on the back with a smile. Then they’re alone.
Harry walks closer, only in his socks and when he’s right in front of Louis, he pulls him in by the shoulders, wraps the thick blanket around them and dips his head down to touch their foreheads together. Louis can feel his warm breath on his face when Harry runs his nose down the bridge of Louis’.
“How are you feeling, love?”
The corners of Louis’ mouth twitch. “Honestly? I’m trying to not feel anything for a while.”
“Not even the cold?” Harry quips, obviously trying to lighten the mood. “Because I don’t think I can feel my toes.”
“I’m sorry,” Louis tells him. He grips two corners of the warm blanket in his hands and wraps the around Harry’s waist, drops his head against Harry’s collarbone, inhales deeply. Lavender and something almost spicy, like incense or herbs. “We can go back inside soon. I just needed some air.”
He feels Harry sigh against his hair, arms coming around him and Louis takes a moment to ponder on how this is most likely the closest they have ever been outside of this house. Granted, he doubts anybody can see more than a step ahead in this weather and they’re very much shut away still, but this is close, and intimate, and it leaves no room for error. Louis relishes how, despite everything that’s shaken them the past few days, Harry is so solid in this, confident and sure and so goddamn open and honest and not for the first time, he figures that he doesn’t particularly deserve it. Harry should not be worrying about anything other than what to wear to the next party or whatever else it is that young, beautiful aristocrats worry about from day to day. And he should be meeting other people as beautiful and fortunate as him, not spend his days trying to hold someone like Louis together, because he sure is getting close to falling apart.
“Have you thought about it?” Harry asks suddenly, voice slicing through the silence.
“Thought about what?”
“Going away together,” Harry says, holding him tighter in his embrace. “The Welsh coast, my grandmother’s cottage. We could be gone by tonight, leave all of this behind, and we don’t ever have to come back.”
Louis tries to blink away the sting in his eyes and he doesn’t know if he should tell Harry that things don’t tend to work out that way. Problems like these don’t go away simply because you want them to, and he guesses the situation he’s finding himself in now is the perfect proof of that. He knows, deep down, that he can’t run away from this and Louis also knows that it doesn’t matter if he’s here or in some secluded part of Wales – this would haunt him for the rest of his life. Leaving is not an option.
“I don’t think we can do that,” Louis settles on eventually, voice muffled by Harry’s shirt. The slight drizzle has developed into steady, soft rain.
“Why not?”
Speaking is rapidly becoming an ordeal. “Because so many people have died because of me. What if they keep killing innocent people, just because they can’t find me? I couldn’t – I don’t think I could live with that. Could you?”
“Yes,” Harry says, so solidly that it startles Louis; with so much conviction he wants to cry. “I don’t care about anyone else. I just can’t lose you.”
You will eventually, Louis doesn’t say. “But I care. I’m sorry, Harry, but I can’t leave. I really can’t.”
“Then what else are we supposed to do?”
Desperation clings to his voice, fingers tightening against Louis’ back just short of painful. Louis burrows closer until their icy toes are touching. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
When Louis returns inside, he finds Zayn and Niall in the guest room Zayn has been occupying for the past few weeks. They’re sitting opposite each other on top of the bed’s covers. Zayn has got a small tray and paper in his lap and is drawing Niall, apparently, who turns around when he hears Louis enter.
“Stop moving!” Zayn tells him and Niall turns back with a sheepish smile, trying to keep his eyes on Louis as he sits down on the armchair next to the bed.
“Where’s Harry?”
Louis shrugs and draws his knees to his chest. “Out. Think he and Liam are looking for more information.”
“Ah,” Niall nods, earning another disapproving glance from Zayn as he runs chalk over the paper. “Are you all right then? I mean, you and you and him and – well.”
He hums non-committedly. “As well as we can be according to the circumstances…” and he lowers his gaze to the carpeted floor, follows the colourful patterns with his eyes as he rubs his hands over his bony knees, fabric bunching up in the crooks. “I just – I’m trying not to think too much.”
“That’s probably a good thing,” Niall comments. “I’m all for not thinking too much, ye know. If you worry about every little thing you’ll get a stomach ulcer and be dead by thirty… which is probably a bad thing to say, seeing as your little thing is someone trying to kill you.”
Louis looks up in time to see Zayn roll his eyes. He’s still drawing, fingertips black from chalk and smudging lines, doing this like he’s been doing nothing but this for his entire adolescent life. It’s a little bittersweet to watch him. They’ve never really had the time to do something just for themselves, for fun or simple pleasure, but on occasion, Louis has witnessed Zayn taking a stick and carving random shapes into the mud, or paint faces into dust and he thinks about the artist he could have become, much like the musician Ed was always supposed to be, had he been given a different start in life.
But it’s no use pondering on this; Louis knows that, he’s just lost his grasp on reality a little. It’s probably time to change that.
“I think,” he starts and clears his throat, “maybe we should head back home.”
Zayn drops the chalk. Niall whips his head around so quickly Louis is surprised he can’t hear his neck crack.
“Well,” Louis stumbles to continue, “you’re better, and I’m fine, really, and I think it’s – I think it’s time to get back to our lives.”
“Right.” Zayn moves the tray and paper off of his lap and draws his eyebrows together. “And you think it’s a good idea for you to wander back to Whitechapel when a madman with a metal pipe wants to crush your skull?”
He bites his lip, looks at the carpet again. “I’m not going to hide forever. And I can’t do that either.”
“Nobody is talking about hiding,” Zayn disagrees. “But I thought we were going to figure this out together. How to, you know, confront or solve this without you getting killed in the process.”
“And I doubt Harry would let you go, mate.”
Louis glances at Niall. “It’s not Harry’s choice to make.”
“I know, I know,” Niall is quick to amend. “But – he’d go mad if you left now. First, he’d kill me for letting you leave, and then he’d lose his mind.”
“Can we stop mentioning killing?”
“Sorry.”
Louis sighs. “Look, I’m sorry you got dragged into this as well, and I don’t intend to upset anybody, but I really doubt there’s anything we can do but get on with it.” He pulls at a lose thread on his trousers. “Whoever is behind all this – they seem to have control over Scotland Yard and that’s a lot. That’s a lot of influence and power and I doubt any of us can do anything to change that. I think I’m just going to have to lie low or like, fake my own death.”
“That,” Zayn starts carefully, quietly, “doesn’t actually sound like a stupid idea.”
“What?” Louis feels his eyes go wide. “How am I supposed to fake my own death and let whoever wants me dead know that I am pushing daisies?”
Zayn rolls his eyes pointedly. “I’m saying it sounds like a non-stupid idea, not that I’ve got it all figured out you twat.”
“Whatever, I still think we should go home and just – see what happens.”
“And I think,” Niall pipes up, leaning back on his hands and splaying his legs in almost shameless fashion, “that we should all calm down, have a drink, and wait for Harry and Liam to come back with news.”
Louis raises his brows at him. “Do you have any problem-solving plans that don’t involve alcohol?”
“I’m Irish.”
“Fair enough.”
When Liam and Harry return, it’s past dawn and the rain has finally ceased to pour down on the cobbled square. There’s still an ominous light glowing behind the dense clouds despite the sun having gone down an hour ago, as if there were something else drenching the sky in scarlet. Perhaps a distant fire from the factories on the South Bank, toxic fumes rising up in the air and settling over London like a thick blanket.
Louis feels a tired and slightly drunk from the bourbon that miraculously refilled itself (courtesy of Niall) every time he emptied his glass, reclining in a soft armchair with his feet folded tightly beneath him. Niall is humming to himself, and Zayn seems to be dozing off against his shoulder when the door is opened and Liam and Harry walk in with an unnervingly grim expression that sends Louis’ heart down to his gut almost instantly. Zayn startles awake when the door falls shut again, rubbing his face with both hands, and mutters a hearty curse that makes Niall cackle.
Liam sits down on an empty chair. Harry remains standing, chewing on his lip, heavy coat almost brushing the carpet. He seems nervous.
“Let me guess,” Louis quips, alcohol having loosened his tongue. “Bad news?”
They exchange a glance before Liam clears his throat and pulls his arms out of his coat sleeves. “That depends on how you look at it, I think.” He continues only after everyone sends him a questioning and very pointed glance. “We couldn’t find anything on your father, so we went to the club to meet with one of my father’s acquaintances. He’s not a politician, but he trades with cotton and he donates a lot of money to protect his interests.”
“Get to the point, Liam,” Harry interrupts impatiently, tapping his foot.
“Well. He invited us to come to a fundraiser for the Conservative Party that will be held tomorrow, at Claridge’s.”
“And that is relevant to us – how?” Niall asks with a yawn. “I bloody hate these parties. No proper food and only old, boring men.”
“We won’t exactly be going for the conversations,” Liam says, watching Harry warily.
“We won’t be going at all,” is what Harry replies eventually, tensely and squaring his shoulders. There’s still that nervous buzz clinging to him like honey and even from a few feet away, Louis can see that he is practically vibrating in his skin. “This is a bad idea.”
“It’s the only idea we have,” Liam tries to argue, but Harry shakes his head, drops his gaze and folds his arms tightly in front of his chest, controlling tension.
“We’re not going. He’s not going.” Harry’s words have an unusual firmness and finality to them and it dawns on Louis that they’re talking about him.
“How about you tell me about the idea,” he suggests, “and then I can decide for myself,” and Harry looks like Louis’ just punched him in the chest, breathless and unsteady all of a sudden, almost pleading with his eyes to stop this and not ask anything else because he can barely stand the thought of whatever it is Liam’s come up with.
Liam and Harry have another quick, wordless exchange before Liam speaks up again. “I think there is a possibility for the person who’s been behind everything since the beginning to be there. After the assassination attempt on Prince Edward, the Liberal Party split, and the Conservatives regained majority in Parliament. They were the ones to benefit from it. And if you remember correctly, then the man you saw with your father was most likely a member of the Conservative Party.”
“So you want me to go with you,” Louis concludes, starting to understand why Harry is not happy with the idea, “to see if I might recognise him.”
“Exactly. We could pass you off as my cousin from up North. I doubt very much that people would catch on.”
There’s a flurry of movement to his left, and then Harry is crouching down in front of him, coat spread out around him on the floor like a black halo, eyes wide and wet, red splotches on his cheek from the cold or perhaps even from nerves. He puts his hands on the armrests of Louis’ chair.
“You don’t have to do this. And actually, I don’t want you to do this.”
“But that’s my choice, isn’t it?” Louis tells him, trying to stay calm and desperately trying not to react to Harry’s emotions flooding over his knees and up his chest, threatening to drown him. “If I were to recognise him, we’d at least know who’s behind all this.”
“What if he recognises you first, though?” Harry throws in. His hair is in disarray, like he’d been running his hands through it all the way from the club back to his house. “What if he sees you, and hurts you or even worse? This could go so horribly wrong.”
“But that seems to be the only option at the moment, mate,” Zayn pipes up from his spot next to Niall, still sounding half asleep. “Better than sitting it out and waiting for some bloke to go at Louis with a pipe.”
Harry only throws a quick look over his shoulder, then his attention is already zeroing in on Louis again. There are moments when Louis relishes and bathes in the fact that sometimes it feels like he’s the absolute centre of Harry’s universe, the single most important thing he wants to focus on. This is not one of them.
“Louis, please. Don’t say yes to this. I’d die if something happened to you.”
Louis closes his eyes, takes a deep breath through his nose. His throat feels closed up and his insides are churning. He’s still trying to keep quiet about the increase in chances that something or other is going to happen to him either way. Louis would rather be proactive. He’d prefer that to simply waiting for someone to kill him.
“If anything happens,” he ends up saying, “it won’t be your fault.”
That’s definitely not what Harry wants to hear, but it’s all Louis can give to him at the moment. He realises that he keeps reducing the amount of himself he discloses to Harry day by day and it’s wildly unfair, since Harry’s giving him more and more as time progresses. Harry’s so good, he’s far too good for Louis and he doesn’t deserve him or his worry. The sooner they can put an end to this madness, the better it’ll be for all of them.
“I’ll introduce you as my cousin,” Liam starts up again. “We’ll find something for you to wear.”
“Might have a few suits at home that’d fit ya,” Niall throws in.
“Perfect,” Liam continues. “There isn’t going to be a dance, and no formal dinner. Just smalltalk between politicians neither of us has to participate in, so you don’t have to worry about a thing. We’ll only stay for a short while and keep an eye open and if you feel like nobody looks familiar, we can leave immediately.”
“That sounds doable,” Zayn comments, eyes closed, leaning against the backrest of the ottoman like someone’s taken him straight out of a Renaissance painting. These surroundings suit him weirdly well and Louis has to shake himself.
“It sounds like something to actually do,” Louis says, ignoring the way Harry’s fingers have started to dig into his thigh.
“Please don’t do it,” he says again and Louis’ chest twists with guilt and a strange sense of arousal because he’s down on his knees looking like fucking sin and Louis can’t think clearly around him. “I beg you. Something is going to go wrong. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
Louis opens his mouth to reply, not even knowing what he should say, but Zayn interrupts him, getting to his feet with a yawn and stretching until his bony back cracks.
“I’m going to bed,” he announces to the room at large. “Bloody knackered,” and he strolls out of the room nonchalantly, already seeming more at home in this place than Louis ever will be.
When the door falls shut behind him, Louis lets out an audible breath and, after a few beats, reaches for Harry’s hand.
“I’ll be fine,” he tells him as earnestly as possible, feeling Niall and Liam’s eyes on him. “We’ll just have to be careful, but everything will be just fine.”
Louis knows he’s a good liar. It’s gotten him out of a few delicate situations, but he’s never been less proud of that fact.
“Lou,” Harry starts, but Louis cuts him off with a palm to his cheek.
“Let’s go to bed as well, all right?” he says quietly, fully aware that the others are still present and very much watching them. “It’s been a long day. We can talk about everything else tomorrow.”
Harry sighs; face twisting with displeasure, but Louis can tell he’s already given in. Harry is nothing if not peace loving and this is one of these problems that don’t have a solution to please everybody. Louis has made his mind up and he thinks Harry knows that there isn’t anything he can do to change that. So they might as well get a decent amount of sleep for a change.
They get up and say goodnight to Liam and Niall at the stairs, making plans to meet for lunch the next day to get ready and come up with something resembling a plan. Then they head up to Harry’s bedroom, Louis going ahead with Harry right on his heels, a hand pressed to the small of his back. It’s burning through his shirt, heating his skin, hitting him with another wave of need because they haven’t been close in a while, not with all the almost-dying and arguing and almost-dying again.
Louis tries to breathe properly but his chest is all jumbled and his tongue feels thick and heavy. He turns the corner, feels Harry’s body heat right behind him and suddenly they’re through the door and it’s just like that first time, that desperate thrill that this might be the only and last chance he has to experience this.
“God, I want you,” he breathes out harshly before he can stop himself and Harry presses to his back instantly, body hot and tight and not much bigger than Louis’, but he still manages to entirely encompass him.
“Louis,” Harry groans against his neck and Louis can already feel him, arousal hitting him wave after wave, so sudden and all-consuming that he wants to sink down to his knees and down to all fours like a damn animal, tear off his skin in the process to feel more and to stop feeling altogether.
“Please,” he manages to press out through his teeth and Harry bites at the juncture of his neck, laps over sensitive skin, arms coming around to tug at his shirt and tear at his buttons.
They stumble farther into the dimly lit room, candles flickering around them and cold moonlight coming in from the windows, an eerie gap in the dense clouds revealing the bright sphere. The bed is, strangely enough, still undone, like Harry had given instructions not to enter the room, not to disturb anything in their small bubble to keep it theirs, untouched and unblemished, for as long as possible. It could be that Louis is reading too much into this, so he turns around in Harry’s arms to quiet down his mind, to solely focus on Harry.
He goes up on his toes and reaches for Harry’s face, pulls him in and meets his parted lips. It’s still as perfect and overwhelming and bittersweet as the first time and every time in between then and now and Louis could never grow tired of this, could never get enough of the hot slide of Harry’s tongue against his. He has no clue how to live without it but he doesn’t want to think about it at this moment. Just for one more night, he wants to have this.
Harry moves them along until Louis’ legs hit the edge of the mattress and he sinks down on it, pulls his halfway undone shirt over his head and tosses it to the side, comes to rest on his elbows and almost swallows his tongue when his eyes fall onto Harry practically looming at the foot of his four poster bed. He’s shrugged out of his coat and is making quick work of his jacket, but then he stops, lifts his legs to kick off his shoes before coming to kneel on the bed, legs on either side of Louis’. Louis lets himself be pressed flat on his back by a heated palm to his sternum, swallowing thickly, breath getting caught halfway up his throat and when Harry says, “Let me”, he doesn’t understand at first.
Then Harry moves down, tugs Louis’ trousers off his legs with apt hands and –
“Oh my God.”
His head flies back and his mouth drops open so quickly he thinks he hears his jaw crack. If Louis had trouble breathing before, it’s near impossible now and he doesn’t know what to do with his body, with his hands, with anything, blindly clawing at the bunched up sheets to gain some level of grounding. It’s impossibly hot and rapidly spreading all over his body until it starts to glisten with sweat as his pulse speeds up and his heart hammers against his chest.
“Harry,” he tries to press out but the only sound coming from his mouth is a guttural moan that resonates all the way down to the base of his spine as Harry moves his head, wet sounds obscenely loud in the otherwise silent room. His legs are starting to twitch, but Harry slides his hands up to Louis’ hips and presses his elbows to Louis’ thighs to hold him still.
It’s such a new sensation, so unbelievably overwhelming that it doesn’t take Louis long to feel heat pooling in his groin and his heartbeat climbing higher and higher until it climaxes with a sudden burst of light and Louis’ entire body goes tight with it, shakes for what seems like hours before it’s like a thread cut loose and he collapses back against the sheets, weirdly cool against his skin.
He lets out a mumbled row of curses when he starts to regain the feeling in his limbs and manages to draw Harry into a breathless, bitter kiss when he crawls up his body. Harry is still in his clothes, shirt buttoned up and necktie askew but in place and Louis fumbles with it desperately, driven by the need to feel more skin, more heat, more of everything for as long as possible. He pulls at the buttons until they come lose over his chest, pushes at Harry’s until he sits up on Louis’ hips and takes it off, discarding it somewhere, he doesn’t care. Louis snags his belt, whips it out of the loops and throws it off the bed, moves onto the buttons of Harry’s trousers with newfound precision and reaches a hand inside, breath stuttering when Harry bucks up into his hand.
“Louis,” Harry echoes, also reduces to single words, mouth hanging open, lips red and bruised and so, so lovely.
“Come on,” Louis tells him, pushing the fabric down Harry’s thighs, and watches with a new wave of arousal how Harry kicks them off, sinking down again until his entire body is covering Louis’, sweaty skin sticking together and sliding against one another so easily. They slot right into place with practiced ease and it makes Louis feel even more light-headed. “Get on with it.”
He’s glad that Harry doesn’t need to be told twice and he’s even gladder that he doesn’t object when Louis twists his body around, squirming against the sheets, and buries his face in the lavender-scented pillows. There is no way he can look at Harry’s face now. Everything is overwhelming enough as it is, and Louis can’t do it. Harry peels every layer away, intentionally or not and Louis feels bare not only literally. But there are a few secrets he’s got to keep now, for Harry’s sake more than his and he bites into cotton, trying to ignore the burning behind his eyelids.
It’s a more familiar playing field from then on – every touch, every breath, and every word. Harry’s lips on his neck and shoulders and upper back, him breathing heavily against Louis’ skin, his hair and making every single nerve ending on his body tremble with it. Louis tries to reach out, but his hands slip on the smooth wood of the headboard and then Harry’s fingers are right there, intertwining with his and holding on so tightly that Louis thinks his bones churn.
Harry’s voice is low and rough, but so earnest it makes Louis’ chest hurt when he says, “I love you. God, I love you so much,” and Louis muffles his sobs with the pillow, gasps until he can barely take any air in, not because he doesn’t try, but because he can’t, he simply can’t and it breaks his fucking heart.
Louis barely sleeps all night. Harry is still covering his body, curls brushing up just under Louis’ chin, soft tufts of air hitting his skin and ear once again right against his heartbeat. But Louis can’t come to rest. Whenever he closes his eyes, he’s back in the dark, rats loitering around his feet and the heavy breath of a stranger on his neck, cold metal digging into his spine and the sound of footsteps echoing from one damp wall to the other. He walks for miles through the tunnels of London and the entire time, he is painfully sure that he’s walking towards his death.
Niall’s suit is a bit broad on his shoulders, but not obviously too big and fits him well enough to manage one evening with the High Society of London. Zayn doesn’t exactly laugh at him, but his grin is so prominent that his eyes are scrunched up and Louis returns his wink with a glare. Niall does up his necktie with a satisfied smile and Louis tries not to flinch at the tightness around his throat.
“This is awful,” he croaks for emphasis.
“I think you look ravishing,” Zayn says, chuckling quietly and then loudly after Louis pokes his tongue at him.
“Shut up.”
“Well,” Niall pipes up, “at least you won’t look out of place tonight. Might want to try and turn that frown upside down though.”
Louis knows this is expensive fabric of the best quality, but it’s so unfamiliar that it itches and makes him feel uncomfortable. He misses his own clothes, things that belong to him alone. “I’ll try,” he tells Niall just as the door opens and Harry, fully dressed up as well, walks in. He stops short when his eyes fall onto him, and Louis feels a blush rising in his cheeks.
Harry clears his throat, cheeks slightly rosy as well, looking as immaculate as ever and making Louis feels slightly inadequate in comparison. “Liam is waiting outside. We should probably go.” He still doesn’t look happy at all at the prospect of practically leading Louis into the Lion’s Den.
“Sure,” Louis nods stiffly, nerves rising quickly and he glances at Zayn for a bit of reassurance.
“Good luck,” Zayn tells him with a timid smile, and then gets up quickly, hugs Louis tightly for a beat before he steps back. “And be safe, all right?”
He stays behind with Niall, who’s happily volunteered to sit this one out since, according to him, he’d rather spend a few days hanging upside down than having to rub elbows with politicians for a few hours. Zayn doesn’t say, but Louis figures he’s glad to have some company and not to feel left behind quite as much.
Before they leave the house to meet Liam outside by their carriage, Harry stops him with a hand to his elbow, coats whooshing around them, and moves in close.
“You look beautiful.”
Heat prickles at Louis’ neck. His breath hitches. “No need to charm me anymore,” he jokes to brush off Harry’s sincerity. “You look quite dashing yourself.”
Harry leans in, brushes a last kiss to Louis lips, then they step out into the crisp evening air, cobbled street glistening from the rain that’s once again pouring down on them, quickly dampening their coats as they move to join Liam. Liam nods at them, slightly stiffly, and Louis is relieved he isn’t the only one who’s getting some last minute nerves. Harry squeezes his hand and Louis tightens his fingers to reassure him, but the ride from Harry’s house to Claridge’s isn’t nearly as long as Louis would like it to be, just under two miles he assumes.
His legs nearly give out when they stop in front of the lavish hotel, completely alight and glistening in the dark, against the almost black backdrop of the night. Harry has to steady him, by his side in the fracture of a second as Liam takes the long way around the carriage.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Louis replies quietly. “Or I will be. I can do this.”
“Good. But if you want to leave, any time, tell me and we will be out of there as quickly as possible.”
Liam goes ahead, Louis and Harry trailing behind and as the walk through the doors, Louis catches sight of himself in one of the mirroring surfaces. With his hair slicked back artfully and the dark suit almost fitting perfectly around his body, filling in places that are too skinny, he appears to fit right in, yet he’s never felt more out of place, more dressed up and false and just plain wrong. He hopes that this evening will go over quickly, because he is ready to crawl out of his skin.
The buzz of too many people talking quickly fills the air and Louis forces himself to go ahead despite his mind screaming at him to stop. He doesn’t want to do this. Harry was right. This can only go horribly wrong.
“Leave the talking to us,” Liam utters to him once they approach the large swing doors that open into the ballroom.
Louis nods and swallows, trying to unclog his throat, trying to hide the panic that might be showing on his face. They walk down broad marble stairs and Louis can’t help but look around. The room is alight with crystal chandeliers, red velvet curtains adorning the walls, golden candleholders adding to the warm light that bathes the colourful crowd. He can feel eyes on him that he wants to ignore, schooling his expression into something blank, struggling not to slip on the polished floor.
Two middle-aged women with ridiculous headdresses approach them almost immediately and Liam steps between them, makes polite but short conversation before steering them to a corner of the room from where they can keep an overview of the crowd. He’s grateful that Harry hands him a glass of – he doesn’t even know what it is, but it looks and tastes expensive, and he keeps a hand on the small of Louis’ back, anchoring him when Louis is beginning to feel unsteady, head swimming from everything that’s happening around him.
Liam goes off to talk to a person or two, never for long, making them appear more normal and not so much out of place. Some people come up and talk to Harry, ask him about his father or his mother or siblings and Louis nods stiffly when they beg him hello, but he can’t utter a single word, body strung too tight and mind hazy. He wonders if it’s the drink.
“Anything?” Liam asks when he returns to their side after quite a while has passed, eyes flickering about permanently.
Louis shakes his head. “No. Sorry, there are so many people, I can’t –”
“It’s all right,” Harry is quick to assure him, but they’ve already been here for over an hour he’s shocked to discover when Liam checks his pocket watch.
“It’s not. I should… I should just look around, pay more attention.”
“There’s over a hundred people, perhaps three or four –”
“I just need some air,” Louis cuts him off, feeling dizzy from all the different scents and sensations mixing together. There’s a sting right at his temples that makes his eyelids twitch. “I will only be a moment, but I really need some air.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” Harry asks immediately, looking worried when Louis shakes his head.
“I won’t be long, just nipping out for a few breaths,” he tells him before he turns on his heels and heads back to the entrance, moving through the crowd in quick, almost desperate strides, trying not to look anyone in the eye when he slips, just briefly and barely noticeable, but it’s enough to disrupt his walk and throw him slightly off-balance.
It makes him pause for a second, look up and turn around to look back to where he knows Liam and Harry are waiting, but the crowd has filled up the previously almost empty space and he can’t distinguish them anymore. Louis tries to quell the panic rising in his chest and whips his head back around, eyes moving frantically through the throng of people to relocate the staircase and the doors when they land on someone and Louis freezes on the spot.
It appears like in a single second, all sounds and smells are sucked out of the ballroom, people moving around him like faceless ghosts and the only thing he sees is the person just a few yards away from him, white hair and stoic face and cold eyes that bore straight back into his and Louis knows, he just knows.
He recognises this man and with a chilling shudder that rolls down his back, he realises that this man has recognised him as well.
to be continued.
Chapter 8: VIII.
Summary:
It’s a few hours, at most, and Louis wishes he could be selfish and stay here. He wishes he’d been selfish just a day ago, saying yes and running away with Harry to the Welsh Coast to wake up to his face and the smell of salt in the air. But Louis can only allow himself to seize the remainder of the night and store it inside his body to keep himself warm.
Notes:
This is it. This is actually it. The last chapter. It's been one hell of a journey. I started plotting this so long ago it's kind of surreal that I've actually managed to finish it, and I feel a bit sad about it as well as massively relieved.
This is the last, but also longest chapter, so I hope that's some kind of condolence, and because I've decided that I've been cruel enough, the epilogue that wraps up the entire story will be posted right alongside it.To everyone who's been along for the ride: thank you! You cannot even fathom to imagine how much the feedback to this fic has blown me away and what it means to me that it's been so kindly received, and I hope you won't be disappointed by the ending.
I need to thank Brit for not only betaing this monster, but also for being unbelievably patient, and a saint, and the keeper of my sanity. You are probably (most definitely) the only reason I managed to finish the damn thing and I love you, you have no idea how much.
And lastly, please don't be shy to leave a little note at the end, or come talk to me over on tumblr. Always happy to ramble a little more about this story, or about anything else to be honest.
DISCLAIMER: I still don't own anything but the plot. This story is still a work of fiction and I don't know any of the people featured in it.
WARNINGS: Physical and emotional trauma.
But now, without much further ado:
Chapter Text
“I wish you to know that you have been the last dream of my soul.”
Charles Dickens
,
A Tale of Two Cities
+++
He used to imagine, when he was much younger, that he’d grow up and find a secret treasure and then live in a palace. By the time Louis turned eight, he’d read The Count of Monte Cristo so many times it wasn’t a surprise to anybody when he spent hours enacting the adventures he was going to go on once he grew up. Even when life took a turn for the worse, he’d still hold on to that one tale, of a man fallen from grace who found caves full of gold and returned to his old life for revenge, powerful and magnificent. Louis used to tell that story to Zayn and Stan, huddled together under a barely there, moth eaten blanket, hiding in a hidden tunnel in the sewers to survive the night. It made things easier, to imagine that if only they’d venture far enough, they might too find undiscovered riches that would take them away from the hell they had to grow up in.
Eventually, their shells hardened and stories became painful and unnecessary and dreaming of chandeliers and palace halls were laughable when faced with a dirty kitchen floor and rats squeaking in dark corners. But still, Louis used to imagine it, had many scenarios he’d ponder on, one more fantastic than the next.
In none of them did he stare his death straight into the face.
It feels strange. Louis thinks he should panic, probably turn on his heels and find Harry and Liam as quickly as possible. Yet all he can do is remain frozen to the spot, only subconsciously aware of people moving around him as if through a thick but see-through curtain that keeps away all noise. His heart is still beating, solid thuds against his ribs, a steady beat that echoes in his seemingly numb and hollow body.
Face set in a stoic expression, mouth a hard line, he comes closer and closer and all Louis can do is watch. There are more lines on his face, Louis observes as the man slowly but steadily approaches, walking stick sharply clicking against marble, contradicting the rhythm in Louis’ chest.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
It seems to be mahogany and the silver figure on its top, half hidden under a fleshy and pale fist, is a boar with its snout wide open, showing long and threatening tusks. An elegant black suit, coat draped over broad shoulders, necktie white and crisp, and a golden medal gleaming in the glowing light of the chandeliers. Louis’ throat is as dry as dust. He looks up again, meeting eyes whose coldness he’d recognise anywhere.
Louis reckons part of him knew from the start that this is what was going to happen and has already come to terms with the fact. He feels eerily calm. The man comes to a halt right in from of him, not even a foot between them. He smiles, lines cutting deep into his cheeks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
His voice cuts through the thick silence surrounding Louis’ head. It’s like an echo from a past he believed to be buried for good.
“Louis, my dear boy,” he says like they’re friendly. There’s a heavy hand on his shoulder, holding him tight enough to let him know that trying to get away isn’t a good idea at this stage they’ve reached. “It’s been such a long time. You look very dapper.” There’s a gleam in his eye signalling that he knows exactly that under all that expensive tailoring and silk, Louis is nothing more than a dirty street rat. “How about you and I get away from this for a while? Give us some quiet to catch up.”
Louis can’t say a word. His throat his locked up tight. He’s waiting for panic to break out, but it’s not, even when the man starts moving away from the crowd, hand still grasping Louis’ shoulder and subtly pushing him along, gesturing to a man standing off to the side. Louis just catches the nod that follows, then has to focus on his feet to prevent himself from tripping up the stairs as they make a quick exit into the dimly lit hallway and to the left, away from the lobby of hotel.
His pulse only starts to accelerates when he hears long, heavy footsteps behind, sounding awfully familiar and he believes the last time he’s heard them was in a cold, dark alley near Liverpool Street. Louis wants to turn around, but the fingers digging into his shoulder stop him.
“Oh, that’s only Cobb,” the man says lightly, walking ahead as if nothing is amiss. “I gather you’ve met. No need for introductions then.”
He wonders if they’re going to kill him right here and now. Perhaps the big, burly man named Cobb has brought the metal pipe that smashed Thomas’ skull, and the bones of the other boys. Maybe Louis is special enough to warrant a knife, or even a small gun. He’d prefer a gun. He’s never seen anyone get shot, but he imagines it’s less painful than getting beaten to death with a pipe.
He gets steered into an empty room, hears the door shut and the lock click only a few seconds after he enters it. There’s a chandelier on the ceiling right in the centre, the walls adorned with landscape paintings in muddy colours. A red Persian carpet covers the entire floor. In the middle is a round table out of polished wood, two leather armchairs standing on opposite ends. A silver tray sits on top of it, filled with crystal glasses and a carafe filled with amber liquid.
Louis gets pushed into one of the chairs, legs so stiff they barely fold at the knees and his hands go to the armrests instantly, fingers digging into soft leather to release some of the tension that’s starting to grip his body.
“Now,” the man says after he’s sat down as well, leaning the boar-topped walking stick against the side of his chair. He folds his hands, a single insignia ring catching the light shining down from the chandelier. “I don’t think we’ve ever been properly introduced, have we? I’m Lord Chancellor Magee. Although may I just say, you bear a striking resemblance to your mother. A truly beautiful woman. It’s no surprise you’ve caught young Mr. Styles’ eye.”
Lord Chancellor. Fucking hell.
Louis’ heart sinks multiple times. Each word is like a solid punch to his sternum. He can barely remember his mother or what she’d looked like, features bleary and so deeply buried in his mind he can’t dig them up again. And Harry, God, he didn’t think they were so transparent. He’s not even thought about what would happen were anyone to clue in on the nature of their relationship. His unease is apparent and Magee can clearly tell.
“Oh, don’t fret, my boy. Did you think people were unaware of his preferences? He’s never been particularly shy about that, but his family is too financially important for it to ever become an issue. If anything were to happen to him, it wouldn’t be because of that.”
His smile broadens just slightly. Louis feels sick. Magee leans forward in his armchair. The leather squeaks, the glasses clank as he sets to aside and reaches for the carafe, pouring a generous amount of strong smelling liquor into both of them. He pushes one towards Louis, but he doesn’t touch it. Watching him with probing eyes, Magee takes his time to take two, three sips of his drink, and then he sits back, folds his hands in his lap, white hair a staggering contrast to the dark leather of the backrest.
Louis’ eyes flicker to the side. Cobb is guarding the door. In the light, he appears even bigger. He’s got a few heads on him and is three times as broad, shaved head and a meticulously trimmed beard, appearing weirdly controlled for someone who goes around Whitechapel and kills people on the street. He seems, apart from his enormous size, frighteningly normal, and that’s what scares Louis the most. Cobb could probably break his neck with his bare hands and walk through Claridge’s without turning any heads.
“Now,” Magee tears Louis away from his thoughts. He turns his attention back to him, which is probably a good idea anyway. He feels like his fingers are about a minute away from tearing the leather to pieces. “We find ourselves in an unfortunate situation. You’re a bright young man, no doubt. Perhaps a little bit too bright, much like your father. But unlike your father, you don’t want to cause me any trouble, do you?”
He doesn’t give Louis the chance to reply and Louis wouldn’t know how to respond either way. He is desperately trying not to let this man see how terrified he actually is.
“Mr. Payne is not as subtle as he’d like to think, and a man of my position has his ears in many places, so I am going to assume that you and I both know what I’m talking about and that is something I’m very keen to erase.”
“You want me dead,” Louis states the obvious. His blood is running hot and then cold and his head is starting to hurt from the tension seeping from his rigid back. “You found out I was alive and you want me dead to bury the fact that you plotted the assassination.”
Magee shakes his head. “No,” he replies. “I didn’t plot the assassination. I merely planted the seed. And then made sure it failed and the right people were convicted. Pesky things, those liberals. But they’re too honourable to succeed in politics. A scandal like that split the party in half, and the Conservatives regained the majority in parliament.”
“So you had my father killed for your political career.”
“People have done far more for their political careers,” Magee says nonchalantly. “A few lives are nothing compared to the grand scheme of society. A teacher with socialist tendencies and a handful of orphans hardly count as collateral damage.”
Louis wants to scream out his rage, but what use would it be. He bites down on the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. “I guess I don’t count either.”
“Of course you count, Louis,” Magee protests and sends him an encouraging smile that Louis knows is rotten to its very core. “Because I think you have something that might be of interest to me.” He pauses for effect and Louis stops short, momentarily forgetting his panic as his mind starts reeling. “You see – your father had a document of some sort. Something on which he noted down the names of those who were present to discuss the political future of this country, as well as the final plans to assassinate poor Prince Edward. I had people search your flat, but nothing of the sort could be found and I feared someone might have taken it in order to blackmail me in the future.”
“I don’t – I don’t know of any document.”
“Don’t take me for a fool, boy!” His voice is rising, cheeks starting to go red, composure slipping. “At that sodding orphanage they sent you two was a list of belongings. You had a book with you. Where is it?”
Louis bites down hard on his tongue. He barely manages to stop himself from flinching visibly. He still has the book. It’s the only bloody thing he’s owned in his life and he knows it back to front and front to back. There’s no document, no list, no piece of paper anywhere in this book, but he doesn’t know whether to admit that. He doesn’t know if this book might extend his life for a bit. It takes a few attempts until he finds his voice again. His mind is screaming at him to just buy some fucking time.
“I don’t have it here.”
Magee schools his features into something resembling calmness once more. “Ah, but you do have it. And I would very much like for you to bring it to me.”
There’s no point trying to beat around the bush. “Are you going to kill me if I don’t?”
He shakes his head, right hand absentmindedly stroking the head of the grotesque looking boar on his waking stick. “I will have you killed one way or another. If you bring me the book by tomorrow morning, I’ll allow Cobb to break your neck, quick and painless. But if you decide to ignore my request, or even try to run, Cobb will only be too happy to give young Harry a visit.”
Louis feels his heart drop down to his ankles. This isn’t how it was supposed to go and he realises with nausea settling in his belly that Harry had said – he’d told Louis that this would turn sour. It’s gone so wrong Louis can’t even begin to describe it, but he can’t allow anything to happen to Harry. Harry who’s been nothing but loving and caring and selfless and now Louis has dragged him right into this mess.
Magee looks at him, eyes narrowed, assessing him quietly. Then he extends an arm across the table. “What do you say, Mr. Tomlinson? Do we have an agreement?”
There’s another way out of this. There has to be, Louis is so sure of that, but maybe his mind is playing tricks on him again. Deep down, he realises he’s almost been prepared for this, mentally closing himself off, savouring every second he still gets to spend with Harry and hoping and praying that once everything’s over and dealt with, everyone else would get to carry on with their lives. Louis tries to think, but he can’t, and he feels sorry for cursing his father and calling him a coward, because if this is what it felt like, if this is what Magee had done to him as well – he thinks he understands now.
Louis takes a deep breath, steels himself. Then he reaches across the table to shake Magee’s hand.
“Are you feeling better?”
Harry’s deep and calm voice pulls him out of his trance. Louis almost startles, blinks up into his eyes, looking like emeralds in this light and in this angle. Louis wants to kiss him until he can’t breathe, wants to sink down to his knees and apologise and he wants tell Harry that he’s changed his mind, that he wants to run away with him after all, no matter where just as long as they can stay together. He wants to cry and scream and he wants to fucking live.
But Louis always has known that nothing in life is ever fair. And people like him don’t get a happy ending with people like Harry.
He needs to say goodbye to Zayn, and Niall and Liam as well, and it hurts already just thinking about it. If he thinks about saying goodbye to Harry he’s going to break down in the middle of the hall. But he needs to get back to Lowndes Square and he needs to get a grip, because that book is still in their room in Whitechapel, under the floorboards where Louis has kept it for the entire winter. He hopes he can see Stan and Ed and Aiden one last time before he has to make his way to Magee.
“No, actually. Can we,” and he has to force down a lump lodged in his throat, “can we go home? I don’t recognise anyone. And I’m not feeling too well.”
Harry sighs, seemingly with relief. “Of course. I told Liam it would be a bad idea,” he says, not having a single clue how bad it actually turned out to be.
Louis resists the urge to cling to Harry, seeking proximity and comfort for the last few hours he gets to spend as they make their way towards the exit, Liam on their heels, two sets of eyes burning into the skin on Louis’ neck. The cold evening air is refreshing and a slap to his face at the same time. It smells like rain, but then again, it always smells like bloody rain in this damn city.
They bundle into one of the carriages waiting on the curb, Louis immediately searching for Harry’s hand once he’s sat down, holding on tightly. Liam takes a seat on the opposite bench, a rueful expression beginning to show on his face.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “This was a bad idea.”
“Stop apologising,” Louis replies, tired to the core but still shaking, a horrible push and pull that leaves him short of breath. “It wasn’t a bad idea. And nothing –” He has to swallow around the words so they won’t seem like a lie, “nothing bad happened.”
“Thank God,” Harry breathes next to him, soft gust of air hitting the side of Louis’ head.
Instinctively, he leans closer, resting his temple against Harry’s shoulder, attempting to slow down his pulse, to push everything aside for a while. The cabin trembles as it’s pulled through the cobbled streets, two quartets of hooves clattering along in a steady rhythm. It takes the exact amount of time to get back to 17 Lowndes Square as it took them to reach Claridge’s, but the journey seems to be over in seconds, time passing far too quickly.
Apparently the clock is already ticking down.
It’s Mairie who opens the door for them. She’s got a few red splatters on her white apron, perhaps from cooking tomatoes, but all Louis can think of is blood trickling over creaky floorboards. The metallic smell is already stuck in his nose and the high collar of the shirt he’s wearing, even tighter because of the necktie, is starting to itch and become very uncomfortable. Louis can’t wait to tear the fabric off of his body.
His fingers fumble for the knot of the tie the instant the door closes behind Liam, silk slippery in his shaking hands, dropping it carelessly onto the floor once it finally comes undone. Louis shrugs off Niall’s coat and kicks off Niall’s shoes and he needs to peel away everything that isn’t his. Harry stops him by placing both hands on Louis’ shoulders.
“Louis,” he starts.
“I want to see Zayn,” Louis replies. Only then does he register the things lying on the floor, and Mairie hovering on the side. “God, sorry.” He bends down to pick up the coat, folds it over his arm, nearly trips over the discarded shoes when he makes his way towards the staircase, Harry and Liam following closely. They creak with every step he takes, carpet muffling the sound. He tries to appreciate his surroundings, climbing these stairs for what’s likely to be the very last time, but his vision is starting to blacken around the edges, and Louis is desperate to see Zayn.
He’s in the room that’s been his for a few weeks now, sitting on the bed with Niall and tricking him with cards. There’s an empty bottle of wine lying on the sheets and judging by the colour of Niall’s cheeks, he’s had most of it. He turns when he hears them enter, hands tangling in the cover, and he nearly falls off the bed.
“Oi, you’re back early,” Niall says, accent more pronounced now that he’s had a few. Zayn shoots an amused glance in his direction before his eyes settle on Louis, expression softening.
“How’d it go?”
Louis shrugs, drops the coat onto a chair, followed by the suit jacket and starts to unbutton his shirt, moving around the bed to sit down on its edge, close to Zayn. “There were too many people,” he says, because that statement at least holds truth to its core.
“Then we’ll think of something else,” Niall comments easily, getting himself into an upright position again, eyes scrunching up as he looks at the cards Zayn has put in front of him. “Fuckin’ hell, what am I meant to be doing again? Pick one? Five?”
“Maybe we should all get some sleep,” Harry suggests when Niall groans and buries his face in his hands. “I’ll tell Mairie to fix up some rooms.”
He leaves the room just after Liam and Niall, after heartily groaning once more, crawls off the bed and drags his feet to follow them, waving absentmindedly over his shoulder. Louis’ chest feels tight. He thinks this might have been goodbye already. He rubs as his tired eyes and pulls his legs up onto the bed, moves closer until he can curl into Zayn’s side. Zayn is warm, and he finally has a healthier glow to his face, looking less gaunt. Louis thinks about the last decade they spent together, growing as close as brothers, ready and willing to do so many awful things for each other, sharing clothes and blankets to not freeze, sharing food to not starve.
Louis knows Zayn will be all right. He’s always lived this way, no comfortable past his mind could slip back to, and he’ll pull through, as will the other lads. It’s just hard to come to terms with not being there to help anymore. It’s hard to imagine what he’s about to put them through, the pain it’s going to cause, and it might be worse when he realises that eventually, they’ll forget him, just like he’s almost forgotten his own family. He will fade into the back of their minds until they’ll struggle to even remember his face.
“Lou?” Zayn’s voice pulls him out of his own head. “Is everything all right?”
Their legs have slotted together, automatically, second nature from all the nights spent sleeping on a dirty floor, in a muddy back alley, in a mouldy tunnel in the sewage system of London.
“Do you remember the Count of Monte Cristo?”
He notices that Zayn stops short, thinking. “Not sure.”
Louis burrows closer against his bony shoulder. “It’s the story about the man who gets betrayed by his friend and thrown into prison on an island in the Mediterranean. And his cellmate is an old man who tells him about a long lost treasure hidden on the island of Monte Cristo. He gives him a map, and helps him escape. And then he finds the treasure; mountains of gold shimmering on the bottom of the sea, hidden in a grotto.”
“‘S how we got through the first couple of weeks in the sewers,” Zayn says. “You told us that story, and we pretended to be looking for that grotto. Hell, that was how long ago?”
“Nine years?” Louis suggests. “Maybe even ten.”
“Jesus,” Zayn exhales. He shifts and the cards still lying on the covers slide off. “And we kind of found it, didn’t we? There was a drop in the tunnel somewhere below Blackfriars and we only found it because Ed fell down it during that first winter when he fell into the canal and the water dragged him over the edge. And we all though for a minute that he’d broken his neck or fucking drowned or something.”
“But he’d somehow managed to hold onto the bars blocking the tunnel and when he climbed down to get him, he’d unscrewed two of them and we had a secret place where no one could find us.”
“Was a bit like a treasure.” Zayn drops his head onto Louis’, sliding their palms together, linking their fingers. “We hid there for three days when that whoremonger Davis thought I’d stolen his money.”
Louis feels his lips twitch. “You had, though.”
“Technically, it was mostly ours anyway.”
There’s an uncomfortable, tense undertone. Louis understands completely. He turns his face into Zayn’s shirt, cotton soft and warmed by his skin, smelling familiar, soaking up a last dose of comfort. Desperately trying to not give anything away, he tightens his arm around Zayn’s middle.
“We always pulled through, didn’t we?” His throat closes up and his tongue feels like sandpaper, dry and stiff in his mouth.
“Always have, always will,” Zayn replies, sounding sleepier than just a moment ago. He’s probably only minutes away from slumber.
Louis knows that he won’t close his eyes again until he closes them for the very last time.
When he slips into Harry’s bedroom, he finds Harry motionless in front of one of the windows, curtains wide open, entirely undressed. It takes quite a lot of willpower to stop his knees from buckling. Harry looks over his shoulder with a smile when Louis shuts the door behind him and he nearly starts to cry right then and there, because Harry is the most perfect thing he’s ever laid eyes on and he’s more than anything Louis thought he ever deserved and he – he just loves him so much it hurts. Louis doesn’t understand how this happened, how any of this happened, but Louis can feel it now as solidly as his heart beating increasingly faster and harder against his aching ribs – he loves Harry. And he needs him like he needs the air in his lungs and Louis is suddenly so sure he won’t last long anyway after tearing himself away from Harry.
It’s a few hours, at most, and Louis wishes he could be selfish and stay here. He wishes he’d been selfish just a day ago, saying yes and running away with Harry to the Welsh Coast to wake up to his face and the smell of salt in the air. But Louis can only allow himself to seize the remainder of the night and store it inside his body to keep himself warm.
Harry’s warm gaze on him, Louis undoes the buttons of his shirt and pulls his arms out of the sleeves, laying it over backrest of a chair where Harry’s clothes are already folded. He unbuckles the leather belt, shoves the trousers down his legs and steps out of them, pulls off the socks at last and straightens, runs his hands through his hair that’s been combed back neatly until it falls across his forehead in familiar fashion.
Louis shivers despite the room being as warm as always. He takes a deep breath, chest expanding as his lungs fill with air, and clenches and unclenches his hands before finally walking across the soft carpet until he comes to a stand right behind Harry’s taller and broader frame. His sandpaper tongue still makes his throat ache and it hurts when he swallows his nerves, circles his arms around Harry’s waist and his skin is so soft and smooth when Louis tightens his arms and practically clings to Harry’s back, forehead dropping to rest between his pronounced shoulder blades rippling with strength. Louis noses at his spine, lightly drags his lips up and down, needing to taste and smell and feel, just one last time.
His eyes are becoming wet.
“You would tell me, wouldn’t you?” Harry suddenly speaks up.
“Tell you what?”
“If anything happened,” Harry clarifies, lifting his arms to completely cover Louis’, holding his hands tightly, “you’d tell me, right?”
Louis sends a silent prayer that Harry doesn’t register the hitch in his breath, the way he has to clench his teeth for a beat or two to get his voice under control. “Of course,” he manages to say, surprising himself with how sincere he sounds.
He has no clue if the answer satisfies Harry, but at least he doesn’t press on, because Louis is sure he’d crumble. Part of his mind is screaming at him to tell the truth, to turn this night around somehow, but Louis doesn’t utter a single word. Instead, he closes his eyes, one lonely tear tickling down his cheek and curling over his jaw, drying and disappearing before any more can follow.
Louis’ head is bedded on Harry’s chest. His heart thumps solidly against his ear and Louis counts one beat after the other. Harry’s hand is still tangled in his hair, had been running through it until just a while ago, but now Harry is fast asleep, head angled to the side on the pillow and hair fanning out. His lashes are dark against his cheeks, his lips rosy and parted and Louis counts, thump thump thump, drawing out the inevitable.
It’s still dark outside, but it can’t be long until sunrise. He’s got to go and get to Whitechapel while it’s still dark and he’s cutting it close, but Louis can’t bring himself to leave. It hurts just thinking about it, and his eyes haven’t stopped burning since Harry closed his. It’s probably between four and five in the morning, yet Louis hasn’t slept a single minute.
This is the hardest thing he’s ever had to do.
He pushes his body away from Harry, hands digging deep into the mattress and freezes when the sheets rustle against the silent backdrop of the bedroom. Letting out a silent breath, he moves as slowly and steadily as he possibly can so that the bed doesn’t creak and makes his way across the carpet that’s muffling his steps, refusing to turn around before he’s fully dressed because he won’t make it otherwise; he’s simply not strong enough. Louis finds his own clothes, washed and pressed and neatly folded, smelling like soap and lavender and feeling so soft on his shivering skin. He closes the buttons with trembling fingers, can’t stop his hands from shaking, slips into the old coat only held together by a couple of stubborn threads.
Only then does he dare to turn around again and the view of Harry sleeping, stretched out on his bed with the sheets only pulled up to his waist, curls falling wildly around his face that is relaxed, so beautiful that Louis still sometimes thinks he’s caught in a fever dream. His breath stutters in his chest as his vision blurs and he rubs across his face with erratic movement. He can’t just leave like that. He just can’t do it.
Louis’ gaze falls upon Harry’s desk. A few letters are unopened to the side, but there is some pressed paper and a quill to the side, as well as a pot of navy blue ink. He tears his eyes away from Harry who thankfully remains fast asleep, and reaches for the quill, dips it into the ink, fingers still shaking so much he splatters small spots over the paper before he’s even put down a single word.
Pressing the feather onto the paper, muscle memory takes a second to come back to him and the first line he draws is a surprising effort. Louis hasn’t written anything in so long, safe for the few random labels he did for Ben’s shop, and it’s even harder now because nothing he could come up with would ever convey how he feels. He gets down the first word, and then the second and he’s almost finished before he realises that the ink is smudged in a few places, clear drops blurring the letters.
Dropping the quill, Louis wipes at his wet eyes that seem to have finally spilled over. A sob catches in his throat, but the sound thankfully doesn’t make it past his lips as he bites down on the harshly, pain momentarily distracting him from the fact that an invisible force seems to be tearing as his chest. Louis steps away from the desk and turns around one more time, drinking in Harry’s form before closing his eyes and allowing himself to reminisce for a moment; the first careful glances and rushed touches, sheer unbearable want and warmth, whispered words and promises both knew they would never be allowed to keep.
Seemingly another lifetime ago, his mother had told him about love. And Louis thinks he finally understands.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers into the dark room, echoing the words he put on paper for Harry to find once Louis is already gone. “I love you. And I’m so, so sorry.”
Then he wills his body to move.
Louis gets as far as the edge of the square before he feels like his chest is being shredded to pieces and his visions blacks out from pain. He topples forward, catches himself against a brick wall and folds in half, retching until he spits bile onto the ground and muffles the scream that crawls up his throat into the crook of his elbow.
He feels numb by the time he reaches Whitechapel. Dodging people that have fallen asleep on the stairs and in the hallway leading up to their room, he moves automatically, shutting off his mind because he can’t think about what he’s about to do. Louis opens the door as quietly as he can. Stan, Ed and Aiden are still asleep, bundled together in the corner farthest away from the leaky window, so Louis quickly locates the one loose floorboard and lifts it. It’s been a few months since he’d hidden it there, but the old, tattered book his father had carried around like a small treasure is still there. Just as Louis lifts it out and clutches it to his chest, the sheets shuffle and his heart drops.
“Louis?” It’s Stan, blinking at him with bleary eyes. “What’re you – what?”
“I’m already leaving,” Louis hastily replies, putting the wooden plank back in its place, hoping that Stan will leave him be. “Go back to sleep. I just needed to get something.”
“What? Why?” Stan is sitting up now, rubbing his eyes, gaining consciousness and everything in Louis’ chest in clenching. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” he says just as Ed and Aiden are beginning to stir. None of them are heavy sleepers, for very good reasons. “I just – there’s something I have to do.”
“Lou?” Another two pairs of sleepy eyes are suddenly on him and Louis wants to cry. He can’t handle more goodbyes. It’s too much.
“What do you have to do?” Stan insists on knowing, already far too awake for Louis’ liking. He needs to leave. “Where are you going?”
He doesn’t want to cry, but his eyes might very well still be red. “I’m sorry,” he tells them and swallows thickly, his pulse racing. “It was all my fault, and I need to fix it, so please just – let me leave, all right? I’m so sorry for everything, but I need to leave.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Ed asks.
“I screwed up,” Louis answers him, already reaching for the door, walking backwards. Stan is already getting to his feet and Louis can’t let them keep him. “But Zayn is fine, and you should probably get him. 17 Lowndes Square. That’s where you’ll find him.”
“Louis!” they all call out simultaneously, but he’s already out the door, clutching the book to his body like an anchor.
There is a gap in the brittle wall surrounding St. Paul’s Cathedral. Ivy has grown over it, shielding it off from random passers-by, not that there are many about this time in the morning. The street lamps are still alight, but when Louis ducks past the ivy curtain, he finds himself engulfed in darkness. Fortunately, there are still a few dry matches in the soggy box he tends to keep in his pocket, so Louis lights one up. The flame fizzles and flickers for a second, the he fumbles for the book he’s hidden on the inside of his coat.
The pages are winkled and yellow and Louis’ eyes skim over them, German words he can read but make no sense to him. He flips through all chapters a second time and then a third, but there are no scribbled words, nothing that could be a list of names, not even traces of faded pencil.
Louis groans inwardly and runs his hands over his cold face after dropping the burnt-down match. He has no idea if it’s a good or bad thing that the document Magee had talked about doesn’t appear to even exist. He slides down the rough wall, bricks digging into his back, damp ground cold through the few layers he’s got covering his body. Letting his head drop back, Louis resists the urge to smack the book against his forehead repeatedly.
He doesn’t have much time left before Magee is expecting him and Louis has no fucking clue how to go about it. Chances are Magee isn’t likely to believe Louis when he tells him that there is no document, no ominous list he wants in his possession and he is scared of what that may entail. Magee is very much ready and capable to use Harry to threaten Louis, but he doesn’t have the bloody list and no amount of pressure is going to obscure it out of nowhere.
Gripping the book tightly between his thumb and fingers, he traces the hardcover almost absentmindedly, following the lines of its title, running the tips of his fingers towards the fraying edges, when he suddenly notices the barely detectable dip on the surface, like someone had slipped a folded piece of paper between the cover and the brushed fabric lining it.
“Oh, thank God,” Louis utters to himself. He lights another match, hot against his numb skin and inspect the front cover of the book, flipping it open once more. The paper has starting to peel away slightly on the inside and Louis tugs at the corner, pulls. He has half a mind to feel bad about it in case he’s just imagining things, but there, between the hardcover and the first page, tucked and taped away, is a folded piece of yellowed paper.
Louis lights another match, carelessly drops the book to the floor and unfolds the paper with trembling fingers. It opens up to reveal his father’s cursive, sharp handwriting, and ink only slightly faded. He imagines he can still smell it, fresh on the page. And there, below his father’s own signature are at least a dozen more names hastily scribbled down. Louis recognises Lord Chancellor Magee’s, and at once three or four he’s sure to have read in the papers before. It’s a list of conspirators, no doubt, a proof of attendees to secret meetings that had plotted towards political and social change in this country, most of which were most likely unaware that they’d invited the fox straight into their burrow.
For a moment, Louis allows himself to wonder how they’d all fared, if they had been dealt with by Magee or if they shouldered their guilt or regret over failing and got on with their lives, trying to forget. He wonders if he’s doing the wrong thing, handing this to a man that had happily condemned the lives of innocent people to protect his political interests. But going to the police isn’t an option, as Louis has learned. They’re most definitely all Magee’s pawns, and handing them what is clearly evidence of their own failure wouldn’t be a smart move.
He folds the paper again, puts it into the inside pocket of his coat and reaches for the book. His hands brush over dirt and a few pebbles, and suddenly something sharp and cold. Louis flinches and pulls his hand back, digs around for the last dry match in the box and lights it up to reveal a shimmering, slightly rusty nail, about the size of his palm, lying just a few inches away from his father’s book. Louis looks at the nail for a beat, grabs it, and hides it beneath the cuff of his shirt. He picks up the book and gets to his feet, joints aching in protest, just as the church bell of St. Paul’s rings.
The bell echoes seven times through the crisp, morning air, a whisper of grey light on the horizon, ornate street lanterns still giving off an eerie glow. Louis knows that in other parts of this rotten city, street merchants have already begun their trade, Old Street bustling with people running errands and proceeding with hard work before the upper class has even lifted their sheets. Louis brushed dirt off his coat despite it being soiled anyway and tries to calm down. His pulse is picking up, heart heavy in his chest, beating so solidly that he feels it in the back of his throat.
Following the brick wall, Louis stays in the shadows, keeping out of plain view as he rounds the church towards the front gate, hoping not to attract any attention, but he rather doubts that there are masses of people flocking to church at this time of day. He steels himself, takes a deep breath, and then slips through one of the side gates.
Louis’ never been inside a church like St. Paul’s, so the first step he takes on the marble floor is quite overwhelming in spite of his predicament. He cranes his neck to scan the ceiling, gold shimmering from hundred candles alight in the sheer endless hall leading up to the altar. Feet nearly slipping on the black and white tiles, Louis moves forward, the sound of the cathedral’s organ being cautiously played cascading between the giant archways. He leaves row after row of ornate wooden benches behind him until he’s almost at the very front. Then Louis moves along the bench and sits down. His heart is hammering wildly against his sternum. Black spots are dancing in front of his eyes.
“Isn’t this a tad dramatic?” Louis can’t but say out loud, resorting to humour to calm himself down, soaking up his surroundings, this ridiculous situation, everything. He doesn’t look to the left to see Magee’s reaction, but he guesses he’s probably smirking.
“I think it’s very fitting, don’t you?” Magee retorts, voice light and even, yet Louis doesn’t miss the sharp tones it’s laced with. “They took your father to confession before he was hanged, and I thought you might want the same chance, relieve yourself of your sins.”
Louis clenches his teeth. “Don’t talk about my father.”
“But why not? He was a remarkable man with unfortunate convictions. He could have gone far in this world had he not clung to these ridiculous ideals. A socialist of the worst kind, and his association with the liberals certainly didn’t aid his case. It’s a shame he forced me to do this, but I can’t allow this country to go to the dogs. Just look at the Americans, tearing themselves to pieces like the savages they are over an illusion of freedom that doesn’t exist. They’ll come crawling back to Mother England once they realise their wrong-doings.”
His blood is starting to run hot and Louis has to dig his hands into the bench to stop himself from lashing out. “The thing is, once you’ve straightened your back, you never crawl again.”
Magee laughs at that, a harsh bark that cuts through the delicate organ music still echoing around them. “You’re just like him, dear boy; the same laughable illusions of grandeur and justice. People like you need to learn to stay in their God-given place.”
“I don’t believe in God.”
“I can see why you wouldn’t,” Magee says and Louis finally turns his head, meets his eyes and puts as much venom into his words as he possibly can.
“But if there is one, then I’m sure you’re going to burn in hell.”
“If the afterlife is anything like this life, then you and I both know that won’t be the case.” Magee’s gaze is cold and assessing. Then he stretches out his arm. “Now, I think we have exchanged enough sentiment, and I am a very busy man. Give me the list.”
Louis hesitates only briefly. Off to the side, right next to one of the columns, is Cobb, cutting a big and menacing presence, bald head shining beneath the giant chandeliers. If he refuses to cooperate, he has no doubt that Cobb will end this here and now. If he tries to run, he probably won’t get very far. Louis remembers the quick pace of their chase near Liverpool Street, how Cobb had been so horrifyingly close before Louis had managed to slip down into the sewers. The rusty nail is still sitting right against his wrist, but that wouldn’t do much damage in this situation either.
He sighs inwardly, and reaches into his pocket, producing the folded paper. This right there is his only chance for justice, Louis is quite aware of that. It’s the only piece of evidence that isn’t destroyed, the only proof that his father was innocent and that this mad and power-hungry tyrant had about a dozen people killed. Handing it over is giving up, but what else is Louis supposed to do?
Magee’s smile is satisfactory when he takes the list and unfolds it, eyes skimming over the names written down. He spares a last glance at Louis, then he waves Cobb over, and Louis’ heart drops so rapidly it makes his body ache. Cobb walks down the row just behind them, arms heavy and rigid by his side and Louis doesn’t dare to move, even as one of his massive hands grips his shoulder tightly and drags him to his feet at once. Magee gets up as well, more leisurely and they move towards the aisle, coming to stand in front of one of the iron candleholders.
Holding the list between thumb and index fingers, he keeps his eyes locked with Louis’ as he holds it over the flames. The paper catches fire almost instantly, corners turning black and crumbling, ashes fading into nothing until it’s gone. Louis feels himself deflate, feels the turmoil in his chest dissipate, because it’s over. It’s done. There’s nothing he can do. His family’s dead anyway, and he’s going to be dead very soon, too.
It’s time to give up.
Cobb takes him by the back of the neck and pushes him along, following Magee in his black overcoat, walking stick clicking against marble with every second step. Louis rushes along, overly aware of the menacing presence keeping a grip on him, feet stumbling and head swimming. As they exit St. Paul’s Cathedral through one of the exits on the side and step out into the air, Louis becomes aware of a few things.
There’s a carriage waiting on the corner of the street, the door held open by the coachman, two black horses pawing their hooves on the cobbled street. It’s drizzling again and the ground is rapidly becoming rather slippery and the sky is a dark grey colour, a few lighter patches here and there. Half the street lanterns have gone off. Louis can’t help but wonder if Harry’s just waking up, realising that the bed is empty save for his own warm body. He wonders how long it could take him to find that Louis’ clothes are gone, to see the note Louis left for him on his desk, to alert Zayn and the others.
It hurts, dear God does it hurt, but it’s about to stop altogether, so Louis allows himself to feel it.
Magee only throws a quick glance over his shoulder. “Go to Whitechapel. Dispose of him there,” then he climbs into the cabin and the door closes, curtain shielding off the view. The driver climbs onto his seat, gives the horses a crack of his whip, wheels starting to move, creaking until they’re around the corner and out of sight.
It’s just over a mile to Whitechapel, Louis thinks, dropping his gaze to the uneven ground, he’ll be dead in about half an hour. Cobb squeezes his neck just enough to let him know that screaming for help is not an option, and Louis very much doubts anyone would care to help him anyway.
He realises that Cobb is pushing him down Peter’s Hill and towards the Thames, opting for the route along the river to go to Whitechapel instead of the busier streets in the centre. It’s a narrow path covered in mud and every time Louis slips, Cobb’s massive hand cuts off his air supply. He already feels light-headed when they pass Carter Lane Gardens.
For the past ten or so years, luck hasn’t exactly been on Louis’ side. He doesn’t believe in God, or any other greater power, but if anything like that exists, it seems odd that life’s throwing him a bone at this very moment.
The half open gully appears seemingly out of nowhere, smack dab in the middle of the alley. Someone must have started to pull on the heavy lid and given up halfway through and Louis doesn’t know if Cobb has noticed, doesn’t know if this will work, but it suddenly feels like the only chance to get away. There’s still the possibility of Cobb snapping his neck before Louis even gets to the gully, but then the cold nail presses against his pulse point. Louis takes a deep breath for courage, lets the nail drop into his palm and closes his fingers around it.
Then he slams his hand back.
Louis can’t see where he hits him, but Cobb lets out a pained grunt and the grip on Louis’ neck loosens for a second, long enough for him to dart forward. “You little –” Cobb barks, manages to snag the collar of Louis’ coat, but Louis pulls his arms out of the sleeves and runs, feet sliding over the dirty ground, mud squelching beneath his shoes. Cobb is on his heels, Louis can sense it, but there’s no time to turn around. He drops down, slips the last two feet to the opening to the sewers, and manages to prop up his legs right against the lid to push it out of the way. He rolls around, bends at the waist and allows his body to fall.
Louis’ hands reach out to grab the ladder leading down into the tunnel, but his fingers are wet and slippery, his palms still bandaged and essentially cut open underneath, so he can’t grip the rungs properly and takes an unpleasant tumble. His feet hit the ground and the force of his fall makes his knees buckle. There’s no time to hesitate, no time to think, but it’s also pitch black down here, the only light coming from the opening above, but already there are heavy footsteps on the ladder, angry curses ringing down and Louis needs to rely on instinct and adrenaline to pull himself through.
He turns left, one hand to the damp wall, knees bent to keep his balance, rats squealing all around him, scattering as Cobb’s heavy figure follows him with more agility than Louis would have likde him to have. One wrong step and Magee’s lackey will have caught up with him, and then he’s only one twist away from having his neck broken.
It’s unusually noisy in the tunnel, water rumbling in the distance, as they presumably get closer to where all tunnels meet to eventually be led into the Thames. Louis can’t hear how quickly Cobb is approaching and he can barely guess how fast he himself is moving. His entire body is hurting, legs straining to keep going, hands burning and head throbbing. He simply doesn’t have the stamina or muscle to outrun someone like Cobb when he doesn’t have alleyways to sneak along and fences to climb. Louis can move quicker than anybody through the streets of London, and perhaps it was a stroke of idiocy and not luck that led him down here.
The farther he walks, the louder is the gurgling of the water and the narrow ledge he’s been walking on get slimmer and slimmer. Louis has to flatten his back to the wall, which slows him down considerably, but Cobb is four times his size, so Louis hopes he’ll be all right. Just as he thinks that, he hears a loud splash behind him and realises with blood running cold that the giant dead set on killing him must’ve jumped into the canal. He’s tall and heavy enough to not get dragged away with the current and it means he’s getting really fucking close. Too close, Louis figures just a second later when a hand closes around his ankle and pulls.
Louis is yanked forward and his back hits the ledge so hard pain shoots down his spine and he can’t breathe. It’s so fucking dark and he can’t see a thing, but he can feel the second hand trying to grab him. He swings his arms around, desperately trying to find anything he could hold onto, but everything is slippery and wet and he slides right over the edge and into the freezing water.
It parts and laps over his head and Louis can’t even think of taking a breath before he’s pushed under by an elbow digging into his chest. His lungs are burning and all his senses are confused as he lashes out as hard as he can in hope of hitting Cobb where it hurts. The hand is no longer around his ankle, but tangled in his shirt, tearing at the fabric and Louis holds on to his lower arm, pulls himself towards it and bites down. He can’t hear Cobb’s scream through the gurgling in his ears, the water wildly lashing around, but he lets go and Louis scrambles to the surface.
He can’t swim well, but he can keep himself from drowning if there isn’t a madman trying to throttle him, but his entire body seems to be on fire, pain shooting up and down his limbs. Louis has enough time to take two breaths before Cobb is on him again, grabbing for his throat. There’s nothing to do but kick and throw punches at him that won’t hurt him much. He might be sharp, and quick, but Louis doesn’t win fights because of his bodily strength.
It’s not shallow enough to stand, so Louis keeps slipping under, swallows a couple of mouthfuls of vile water, feeling the current pull at his ankles. They’re still moving, even Cobb getting dragged along slowly and the roaring of gallons of sewage water plummeting into the deep drowning out every other noise. He tries to think, but he can’t, head hurting and numb from the cold at the same time.
He doesn’t want to die. But even more than that, he doesn’t want to die at Cobb’s hands. He’d rather drown or get washed out to the Thames once he falls down –
Louis doesn’t stop short, but his mind screeches to a halt even as he struggles to fight off Cobb. They’re around Blackfriars, right beneath it for all he knows and he thinks he remembers the ledge getting narrower and he remembers the water rushing over the edge of the canal and the thundering sounds of it echoing all around.
With one last breath, one last ounce of strength he’s able to summon, Louis throws his legs out. Instead of trying to hurt Cobb, he uses him as leverage and pushes his body away from him. The current clings to him instantly and pulls him along, getting faster and faster. He thinks the lackey gets a hand on his leg for a moment, but the water yanks Louis away. There’s just enough time to press his lips together, to squeeze his eyes shut and prepare himself before he is dragged over the edge.
Louis doesn’t know what happens, or how. There’s water everywhere and there’s no up and down, world turned on its axis. But suddenly, it just stops. His head hits something solid and he’s only aware enough to feel the pain before everything fades, and is gone.
He always thought drowning would be wetter. He thought it would be painful and gruesome, struggling to breathe and eyes bulging out of their sockets. He thought it’d be water flooding lungs and a long battle. But it still takes Louis quite a while to realise that he hasn’t drowned, isn’t in fact drowning. He does hurt, but it seems to be down to the fact that he’s currently clinging to a pair of iron bars with his bare hands as water sloshes over his back, feet dangling in the air.
It’s a fucking miracle he’s still holding on, but he can’t do it for much longer. His feet scrabble for purchase, because he seems to remember a few solitary steps that they’d used to climb into the hidden tunnel from below. Louis clenches his teeth and pours all strength into his arms, drags his sore body up until his upper body drags over the hard edge. His left foot finds one of the steps and after he slips a few times, it’s enough for him to pull his body up on the ledge, hands still wrapped around the iron bars.
A lot of time must have passed, Louis realises with a start, dim light shining from above, allowing him to at least see the outlines of things. He releases the bars and sees the bloody mess that is his hands, bites down on his lips to distract himself from the pain, because he has to use them to remove the bars. The pain is agonising, almost blinding. Louis tastes bile and breathes shallowly through his nose until he can crawl through the gap. He turns onto his back, taking in large gulps of air – then everything goes dark again.
Louis opens and closes his eyes form time to time, but it hurts too much to move. He thinks it’d be all right to die in here.
Zayn can’t swim. Not only that, but he is (although he’d never admit it openly) terrified of water, which is why he hated the sewers, hates them to this day and he used to kick up such a fuss whenever they had to spent a lot of time there during the cold months to not be exposed to the harsh weather. He’d clung to Louis like a limpet during their first night up in the tunnel, terrified of rolling over the edge and into the roaring water.
Louis is also pretty sure that Zayn is alive and kicking, which is why he’s rather confused as to why he’s suddenly in front of him when his eyes blink open for the umpteenth time. Louis isn’t sure if he’s dead or not, or just hallucinating. He tries to speak up, but his throat is so dry no sound goes past his lips, his eyes watering, and his body still immobile. Zayn is moving his lips, but no sound reaches his ears. He’s still so bloody tired, wants to close his eyes again, but Zayn cradles his face, shakes him slightly and keeps him up. Louis wants to glare, but he’s even too tired for that. Ed’s there as well, which is fucking weird and he can’t really think anymore.
He’s jostled around as they try and move him; try to talk to him, he thinks. But he blinks in and out of consciousness, passing out from the pain and sheer exhaustion when they somehow get him out of the tunnel and down to the narrow pathway that eventually leads to the river. Louis guesses it’s Ed who carries him, Zayn’s silhouette up ahead as it gets brighter and brighter until he has to squeeze his eyes shut and turn his face into Ed’s shirt. He must pass out again, because the next time he opens his eyes, he’s looking up at the cloudy sky.
It makes him want to sob with relief.
He can’t see Zayn anymore, so he moves his head, but Ed stops him, holds his head firmly and Louis tries to breathe through his arising panic. There’s a commotion, more pairs of feet and more voices he can’t understand at first.
“Paul!” It’s a familiar voice and he knows the name, just can’t place it right this second. “Paul, come down here! We’ve found him!” More footsteps, a second pair of hands going round his shoulders to help Ed shoulder his weight. “Hurry up!”
Louis thinks it might be Niall and then Louis’ heartbeat picks up. He struggles against the hold they have on him, Harry Harry Harry ringing in his head, until they lower him down and he sees Zayn again, who wraps his skinny arms around his shoulders and holds on and as his heartbeat thuds against Louis’ chest, he feels his own slow down again.
“You fucking bastard,” Zayn says throatily against his neck. “You stupid, fucking bastard. D’you have any idea what –” He breaks off with a sob, harsh in- and outtakes of air brushing the crook of Louis’ neck as Zayn hugs him closer. “God, if you weren’t half dead already I’d fucking kill you.”
Louis’ head is swimming. Someone – probably Niall – calls out to them again. “Lads, we need to get a move on!”
Zayn is the one who picks him up this time, walks a few yards on shaky legs to stairs that get from up from the riverbank and onto a fortunately empty street. Someone takes him out of Zayn’s arms, and Louis realises that it’s Niall’s driver, the one who’d collected Zayn with them all these weeks ago. They walk for another minute or so until they reach a carriage and Louis gets bundled inside. Zayn slides in with him, cradles his upper body against his chest and moves Louis’ limp legs onto the bench. Niall and Ed climb in after them. The door shuts, and a moment later, they start moving.
He’s still tired. The steady clatter of the horses’ hooves lulls him back to sleep.
When Louis wakes up again, he’s lying down, in a bed, sheets up to his chin, and Zayn is sitting on the edge, holding a glass of water. His smile it watery as he leans forward and helps Louis sit up against the headboard, propping up the pillows so he’s as comfortable as he can be. Louis tries to drink some of the water, but his throat closes up, dry and sore, and he nearly chokes on it, spills most of it on the fluffy duvet.
Once he manages to even out his breathing again and Zayn has sat back, placing the glass on a small table next to the bed, Louis realises that he doesn’t know where he is. It’s an unfamiliar room, lavish and over the top colourful.
“Where –” he manages to press out before it hurts too much, but he figures Zayn understands anyway.
“At Niall’s House,” Zayn replies, moving close again. Louis wriggles and pulls his arms free and Zayn reaches for his wrist immediately, because his hands are once again wrapped up. There are some colourful bruises on his arms. “It was closer to – I mean, we didn’t know how bad –” He breaks off, drops his gaze, wipes at his eyes. “I thought you were gone. I thought you were going to die.”
“I’m all right,” Louis says, and it’s so obviously a lie. Now that he’s slowly regaining consciousness, he starts to understand what an ordeal he’s been through. Every tumble, every fall, every hit. He thinks of Cobb’s big hand closing around his ankle and shudders.
Zayn sighs. “You’re an arse. You almost died, and you’re such an enormous arse.” He’s crying, silently, tears spilling over his cheeks and it’s so startling to see Zayn like that. “Do you know what it was like? I woke up five days ago –”
“Five?” Louis’ jaw falls.
“Yes, five,” Zayn nods and his other hand closes around Louis’ arms as well, fingertips settling right over his pulse point. “We looked for you for four fucking days after Harry woke us all up, screaming the bloody house down. And we had no idea where you’d gone, just your stupid note saying you were sorry and – God, I want to be so angry with you, but I’m just so relieved, you have no idea.”
Louis sees it now, the bags under his bloodshot eyes, the worry still gripping his shoulder.
“We were trying to figure out what to do,” Zayn continues, “when Stan nearly knocked the door down. The lads said you’d been to our room, gotten a book and left, and you’d told them where to find me.”
“I remember that,” Louis says and it’s only slowly starting to sink it that he’d gone into this knowing he was going to die, saying goodbye to people and it’s almost unbelievable that he was missing for four days, had sat in that dark sewer tunnel for that long without even realising.
“What else do you remember?” Zayn asks. “I mean – Jesus, Lou, what the hell happened?”
He doesn’t know what to reply to that. He doesn’t know how to explain. It’s a bit much, if he thinks about it, everything is just so much and still overwhelming and he’s – he can’t process what happened. Not yet.
Louis swallows thickly, eyes and throat burning. “He was going to kill Harry,” he says, voice raspy and quiet.
“Who? Louis, just – who said that?”
He shakes his head. “I can’t –”
“You can,” Zayn insists and he’s still crying, and Louis feels awful, just awful. “You’re safe, I’m right here, and I’m going to keep you safe, I promise. But you need to tell me what the hell happened.”
“He recognised me,” Louis gives up eventually, finding himself growing uneasy under Zayn’s questioning gaze. “He said he’d have Harry killed if I didn’t bring him the list.”
“What list?”
“A list of names,” he goes on, watches as his hands start to shake, as his mind is flooded with images of the Lord Chancellor setting it on fire and ordering Cobb to dispose of Louis. “Of people who were in on the assassination attempt. It was in my father’s book. And I gave it to him.”
“All right,” Zayn nods, and Louis can tell he’s trying very hard to stay calm. There’s a vein throbbing on his neck. “Where is that list now? That could be important.”
Louis hangs his head. He screwed up, he screwed up so much. “It’s gone. He destroyed it. Made me look. Then he ordered his lackey to kill me. But I ran away, I was so scared because – fuck, I should’ve just let him do it. If he finds out I’m alive he’s going to go after all of you and –”
“Louis, stop,” Zayn cuts him off, scrambling up the bed and pulling him in for a hug. Louis squeezes back as much as he can, but his entire body is throbbing. “You’re safe,” he repeats. “Nobody knows you’re here, nobody saw us. And I’m so fucking glad you were scared and you ran, because – fuck, I thought you were dead.”
“I’m not.”
“Thank God you’re not.” Zayn releases him, helps him lie down again.
“Harry?” he finally gets past his lips as Zayn puts a warm hand to his forehead. His eyes are already drooping. He’s still so exhausted.
“He’ll be here soon,” Zayn tells him with a soft smile. “There are a lot of things to organise.”
“Why?”
The contours are already starting to blur. “We’re taking you away. We’re going to keep you safe.”
Louis doesn’t know if he’s dreaming, but Harry’s there, cradling him to his chest, so it feels like a dream. It’s so dark again and cold, but Harry’s heart is beating right against his ear. If it is a dream, Louis doesn’t want to wake up. He blearily notices that they’re moving, voices mingling together to create one unintelligible sound and he’s getting jostled, but Harry’s arms are solidly around him, holding him close.
“Where are we going?” he asks, or at least he thinks he does. His eyes are open wide enough to see scenery move past the window of the carriage, an orange glow in the sky.
He looks tired but still so beautiful and it warms Louis’ chest when Harry looks at him, thumb brushing over his skin with a delicate smile. “We won’t get there for a while. You should sleep.”
So Louis does.
He has the oddest feeling when he wakes up. The air smells strange, fresh and sharp and slightly salty and there’s a soft, cool gust of wind that brushes over his cheeks, but Louis is warm, buried under a thick blanket and, as he opens his eyes, a colourful throw. It’s so utterly quiet save for a distant noise that sounds like – waves?
Louis blinks and the light and sits up, limbs protesting. He’s in a white four-poster bed and the room it’s standing in is spacious but nearly empty, any remaining furniture covered with white sheets. The window is open, cream-coloured curtains blowing softly in the breeze. There’s a blue strip on the horizon, almost the same colour of the skin and Louis thinks it’s the sea.
When he closes his eyes and listens closely, he can hear seagulls in the distance.
“God,” he breathes out in disbelief and resists the urge to pinch himself, but then he looks to his right, and Louis swears his heart grows twice its size.
Harry is stretched out on the mattress, bare arms stretched out over his head, a book on his chest, curls wild and unruly. He’s looking at him, face relaxed and expression soft and Louis can’t believe he almost lost that.
“You took me to Wales?”
Harry smiles, dimples cutting into his cheeks. “I did.”
“I’m –” he starts, but Harry shakes his head.
“Don’t apologise. You don’t have to. Zayn told me what you said to him and… I would’ve done the same. If I had to die to keep you safe, I would. I’m just – just so relieved that I didn’t have to lose you.”
Louis presses his lips together. A sob catches in his throat and Harry looks a second away from crying. He drops down onto the mattress again and curls his body towards Harry’s, clings to him as arms encircle him again and he can finally, finally, bury his face against Harry’s neck. Harry starts trembling with short, cut-off breaths, wet and throaty, breathing hotly over Louis’ hair and Louis rubs his face over Harry’s skin, warm and soft and so familiar, a scent so distinctive Louis is sure he could pick it out amongst thousands.
“I thought I’d lost you,” Harry mutters, voice muffled. “God, I woke up and you were gone and then I saw your note and I just – you’ve been through hell and I can’t imagine how you must’ve felt, but at that moment I really thought it’d kill me. I’ve never felt so much pain. I didn’t even realise I was screaming until Niall found me.”
“Harry –”
“I’m not going to let you out of my sight anymore,” Harry tells him, arms tightening. “I’m never going to let you go again.”
Louis kisses his neck, the soft spot right below his ear where his hair curls into tight ringlets, tangles their legs together.
“I don’t want you to.”
Louis is in bad shape. He hasn’t broken any bones, thankfully, but his entire body looks like it’s been put through a meat grinder. Everything hurts and the serious dehydration he suffered has drained him. It takes two days until he’s back on his feet, and even then, he wobbles around more than he walks, although Harry and Zayn and Niall are happy to prop him up and, in Harry’s case, carry him wherever he want to go.
On the third day, Harry wraps him in the colourful blanket, carries him through the large French windows that open out to a terrace and a wild garden and makes his way towards the sea. He sits them down in safe distance to the water, but close enough so they can watch the tide move up and down the beach. Harry drapes himself over Louis’ back and touches their cheeks together and Louis doesn’t think he’s ever felt this content in his life. There’s still a dark corner in the back of his mind, images that have him wake up screaming and thoughts that make his blood run cold, but he decides to move past that. He knows it’s going to catch up with him, but for now, he just wants to learn how to breathe again.
“We can stay here,” Harry says, lips pressed to Louis’ ear. “Do this every day for the rest of our lives.”
It actually sounds like it could become reality and Louis wants to have it, wants this to be his life, so much his heart jumps up into his throat and he tilts his head back onto Harry’s shoulder.
“I love you,” he says and Louis’ aware it’s the first time he’s said it, but he can’t keep it from Harry anymore and he doesn’t have to because as illogical as it sounds, they might be able to have a life together. And he loves him, so much, more than he’s ever loved anybody and seeing it reflected in Harry’s eyes suddenly seems to be worth the world.
Harry leans down and brushes their lips together, kiss as soft as a feather. “I love you, too.”
It lights up all the dark corners that are still hidden in his head. It makes it seem like things can finally be all right.
The peace, as always as Louis has come to understand, only lasts shortly. Liam arrives eight days after them with dawn, bringing dark clouds from London. They’re in the kitchen, trying to produce something edible, when he walks in, suits wrinkled and creases on his forehead, bearing a worried expression. Louis locks eyes with him from where he’s standing at the sink, glass of water in his hand, and he feels his heart drop.
“Was it the Lord Chancellor?”
The glass breaks when it collides with the kitchen tiles. Water sloshes over Louis’ feet and shards are scattered over the floor. Harry gets to his feet, legs of his chair creaking, but he doesn’t move, eyes flittering between Louis and Liam.
Louis opens his mouth, but no sound comes out of it.
“Lord Chancellor Magee,” Liam repeats as if Louis hadn’t heard him clearly the first time around. “He’s the one behind everything, isn’t he?”
“I –” Louis starts, but he has no clue how to continue. All eyes are on him.
“He was at the fundraiser,” Liam goes on, cheeks red. “I saw him there, Jesus, of course he was there. He recognised you, didn’t he? And then he threatened you, so you went to him so he wouldn’t go after Harry.”
“The Lord Chancellor,” Harry says, turning towards Liam, “that’s ridic –”
“How did you find out?”
Harry whips his head back around, openly gaping at Louis and shock is written clearly in all of their faces. Louis can’t believe he was stupid enough to believe that he could just leave this behind and move on.
“He told me,” Liam says, approaching the table, pulling off his gloves and putting them down. “Not directly but… I was at the club, trying to figure out if anything out of the ordinary had happened, and he approached me. He said – he said that he’d heard young Mr. Styles’ lover had passed, and to pass on his condolences. So I figured he saw all of us together, and that was his way of telling me to stop snooping.”
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Niall says. “That’s like, the third most powerful person in the whole damn country. No wonder everything is so botched up.”
“But he thinks you’re dead,” Zayn throws in and Louis raises his brows at him.
“And?”
“Remember what I said? About faking your own death?” He shrugs. “You’ve involuntarily done that. His lackey saw you fall, and now he’s sure you’re dead, so he won’t come after you or anyone else. You’re still safe.”
“Technically he is,” Liam comments on that, pulling a chair up and sinking down on it. “But Magee knows that Harry and I know about everything. There’s no proof and neither Harry nor I could do anything even if we wanted to, so I doubt he’d do anything, but if Harry just suddenly disappears as well…”
“He’s going to get suspicious,” Harry concludes, biting his lip, sending Louis a worried glance.
Louis stays frozen to the spot. His chest is clenching.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Liam continues, “if he already had a few people on our case, looking for any suspicious behaviour. I don’t think anybody followed me here, but –”
“It’s too risky,” Louis says, looking at Harry and trying to ignore the pleading expression on his face. “You need to go back. You can’t stay with me.”
Harry shakes his head vehemently, eyebrows drawing a fierce line, jaw set. “I’m not leaving. I can’t.”
“You might have no choice, mate,” Niall says, looking nearly as pained as Harry. “You probably need to show yer face to him and make him think you’re mourning.”
“I can’t,” Harry insists, eyes never leaving Louis. “I really can’t. Please don’t ask me to do that.”
Louis feels his eyes well up and he’s so worn out, he can’t even hide it any more. Harry walks towards him quickly, eyes glassy, broken glass crunching under his shoes and he envelops Louis, twists him away from the other pairs of eyes and Louis hides his face against Harry’s shoulder, already feels hot tears soak his own shirt.
“Don’t ask me to leave,” Harry sobs, shoulders shaking and it breaks Louis’ heart. “I can’t do it. I love you, I can’t just leave. We were supposed to be together, we were supposed to stay here and not –” He breaks off, breathless and Louis’ head is beginning to feel like it’s stuffed with cotton balls.
“Harry,” Louis hears Liam speak up again, voice muffled by Harry’s arms wound so tightly around his shoulder.
“No. Forget it. I don’t care. I’m not leaving.”
“It doesn’t have to be for too long,” Liam tries again. “But if you disappear now, after everything that’s happened, Magee will know. And we’re just over two hundred miles away from London. He’s got a reach even farther than that. We need to come up with an alternative plan.”
Louis closes his eyes. Almost instantly, he sees Magee’s face, half-hidden in the dark hallway of his parents’ flat; he sees it in the glowing light of a dozen chandeliers with opulent dresses swishing around, sees it opposite him in a small room holding a glass of brandy and he sees it in the flickering candle light of St. Paul’s Cathedral, eyes cold and satisfied as he’d reduced their only solid piece of evidence to a small pile of ash. They can’t allow him to invade this space as well. Louis can only too clearly imagine him walking through the front door of the cottage, walking stick loud on the unpolished wood, Cobb a looming shadow behind him. He can almost feel hands closing around his throat again and he thinks Cobb would probably grab him by the neck again and drag him out to the beach, Magee looking on from the terrace, and he’d hold Louis under water until it would flood his lungs.
They can’t stay here. Harry can’t stay here.
“Then we’ll go up North.” Harry pulls away, cradles Louis’ jaw; his face red and wet from tears. “We’ll go to Scotland and if that’s not far enough we can cross the channel. I could take you to France, or Italy. Venice is lovely this time of year.”
“I don’t –” Louis starts, but his tongue is a dry, dead weight in his mouth. There’s nothing he’d like more than to run away with Harry, no matter where, but he was naïve to believe that this could be an option for them. And he’s scared; absolutely terrified of how far Magee can actually reach and the lengths he would go to were he to find out that Louis is still alive. “I don’t think we can.”
Harry’s face falls. “Why? Don’t you –”
“I don’t want anything to happen to you,” Louis confesses quietly, lowering his gaze, chest tight, “or to anyone else.”
There are others Louis has to think about, because there are plenty of people that could be associated with him, people that could be targeted; the lads and Zayn, Niall and Liam as well. Louis knows they can’t risk that.
“It doesn’t have to be forever,” Liam continues, waiting until Harry turns his head enough to look at his over his shoulder. “A few months at least until everything has calmed down, perhaps a year so the Lord Chancellor weighs himself in the clear. Maybe long enough for you to mention plans of going away, or back home, so people won’t get suspicious as to why and where to you’ve disappeared all of a sudden.”
“And where’d Lou and I go?” Zayn asks. “We can’t stay here and we can’t go back to London.”
Louis raises his eyes and finds Zayn’s already on him. “You don’t have to –”
But Zayn cuts him off. “Of course I’m staying with you, you twat. Can’t get rid of me that easily.”
“But –”
“No buts. Someone needs to make sure you don’t turn into a bloody martyr again,” he says, then raises an inquiring brow at Liam. “So, where should we go?”
The wind outside the kitchen has picked up, sky gone almost entirely black. There’s a tree branch that keeps grazing a window in the sitting room, loud enough to be heard in here and Louis smells the salt being carried into the house from the sea, waves roaring as the crash onto the shore, frothy foam seeping through the sand. Louis thinks there is a storm coming, in more ways than one.
Surprisingly, it’s not Liam who breaks the tense silence, but Niall, who’s looking unusually small and timid in his chair, hair sticking up in random places because he’d fallen asleep on an dusty ottoman early. It’s strange, Louis guesses, but also rather comforting to see how easily Niall had adapted to the nonchalance of this cottage, how he doesn’t keep up appearances and doesn’t seem to care how he might look to others.
He says, “I think I have an idea,” and all eyes are on him in an instant. Niall squirms for a moment, chewing on his lip, perhaps mulling over the best way to phrase it. “My father’s coming back from the colonies some time this year to get married and he’s going to have a child that’s not a bastard eventually, and I’ll be in the way, right.”
“Niall,” Liam starts worriedly, but Niall waves him off with a quirk to his mouth.
“Nah, ‘s fine, really, always expected it to go this way. My great-aunt invited me to stay with her, take over business, and I’ve wanted to get out of London for a while. So you could come with me. I’ll just go earlier than intended.”
“And,” Louis says, swallowing thickly, “where does she live?”
Niall presses his lips together, looking at Louis like he’s sorry when Louis is pretty sure Niall will never have anything to be sorry for in his books. “It’s, um – I think it’s called Long Island, in New York.”
Louis’ jaw drops and he sees his own expression mirrored in all other faces. “New York,” he repeats monotonously, trying to comprehend what Niall’s just said. “New York as in America.”
Niall nods, wringing his hands together, glance darting quickly to Harry and back. “I mean, we said out of Magee’s reach, right? Think that’s as far as we need to go. And well, would be nice to have a crack at that whole democracy thing, eh?”
The inside of Louis’ head is becoming a mess. He looks at Harry, but he’s got his eyes fixed to some random point on the wall, expression blank, looking completely out of it and Louis would have guessed he’d fallen asleep standing were it not for Harry’s arms continuously closing tighter and tighter around Louis. It should be uncomfortable, but he gets it, needs to be as close as possible as well.
“That’s really far,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else.
“I could go back to London tonight,” Niall suggests cautiously, aware of the fact that Harry isn’t even blinking, “and get everything ready. I have a guy who could smear someone for papers, and I can send a letter to my great-aunt ahead, tell her to prepare as well. We could be ready to leave from Liverpool in a week, take Paul with us just in case.”
With that, Harry suddenly lets go of Louis and steps away, arms straight down his sides, head bowed and hair falling in front of his face. Louis can see the way his clenched fists are trembling. He wants to say something, wants to reach out but Harry is already spinning on his heels, quickly crossing the kitchen and heading out. A moment later, they can hear the French doors leading to the terrace slam shut, windows rattling in their frames.
Louis lets out a ragged breath and wraps his arms around his upper body. He’s glad his knees aren’t buckling.
“Give him a moment.” Louis lifts his gaze. Liam’s eyes are full of sympathy, but even fuller of worry. “It’s a lot to take in, I’m sure. But,” he glances around their little gathering, “I think this might be our best shot.”
“Sure,” Louis replies, digs his fingers into his arms to feel something other than the splintering pain in his chest. “I mean – sure. Zayn?”
“I’m up for it,” he says easily enough, but Louis can tell he’s tense, and uneasy, probably almost as scared as him. “Told you, someone needs to keep an eye on you.” He smiles or rather; his lips try to twitch into one, with only a little bit of success
“So it’s settled?” Liam asks into the round.
He feels tired and drained and Louis can’t even begin to sieve through the mess in his head, to comprehend what’s happened and what’s happening right this moment and what every they are saying in this moment will entail. Going to America; it’s such a surreal concept Louis figures it’s understandable he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s supposed to do with that – how he’s supposed to deal with it.
“What choice do we have?” he asks in return, because this is what it all boils down to.
They don’t have a choice, not anymore, and perhaps they never had one to begin with.
Niall and Liam ride back to London that same evening. Once the door has closed behind them, Louis sinks to the floor of the kitchen, all strings cut, disregarding the shards that are digging into his limbs through his clothes. Zayn sidles up next to him, puts one arm around his shoulders and one around his waist, and hugs him close until Louis feels a bit less like ripping apart at the seams.
Eventually, they drag themselves to their feet and Zayn goes off to bed, but Harry is still outside and Louis couldn’t sleep anyway, so he takes his coat and one of the many heavy throws that are all over this cottage and walks out into the night.
It’s pitch black, but the sky, for once and unlike he’s ever seen in London, is entirely clear and speckled with brightly lit stars that make Louis feel an ache that runs down to his very core. The wind has picked up even more, harsh and biting, making his eyes water and his teeth clatter. Louis wraps the throws tighter around his shivering frame and walks through wild garden and towards the beach, eyes squinting to make out shapes in the dark. He calls Harry’s name a few time and comes to a stop once his feet meet sand, because the tide has come, and Harry is knee deep in probably icy water.
“Harry!” Louis calls out again, voice getting drowned out by the wind. He moves, muscles straining with the extra effort of wading through wet sand. “What are you doing? Get out of the water.”
He must be freezing. Louis can barely feel his toes and he’s only been outside for a few minutes. At the sound of his voice, Harry turns around, hair being blown all over his damp face and wet eyes and he cuts such a striking figure, always, looking tragic and out of this world, poetry come to life, more breath-taking than any phrase Louis could ever come up with. He’s said goodbye to Harry once, but he has no clue how he is supposed to do it a second time.
Louis walks closer. Water is starting to lap at his ankles. It’s so cold that is feels like his skin is on fire.
“I can’t say goodbye to you,” Harry says, words clear despite the roaring of the sea in front of them, echoing Louis’ own thoughts.
“Then don’t.” He takes a step, and then another one, biting down on his lips against the sting of the icy waves going up to his knees. “Just – don’t.” Reaching Harry, Louis lets go of the throw, lets it drop and sink down, the only colourful spot in the dark. He wraps his arms around Harry’s cold body and pulls him back against his chest, tells himself that the pressure against his sternum can stop his heart from breaking slowly but steadily, bit by bit until there’s nothing left to salvage.
“I really thought we’d be together. Is that – stupid?” Harry asks. “Is that still naïve? That I thought against all obscurities, we’d grow old together?”
“You’re not stupid.”
“But I’m naïve,” Harry insists wetly. “You said it and I didn’t want to believe you, but you were right all along.”
Louis’ fingers dig into his coat, and he presses his forehead against Harry’s neck, squeezes his eyes shut and swallows around the sob that’s threatening to tear itself out of his throat. “Don’t believe me. Please don’t. I’m talking rubbish all the time anyway.”
“But you were right.”
“I wasn’t,” Louis insists. He can’t feel his legs anymore. They’re going to catch pneumonia if they don’t get out of the water and back inside soon, but Louis understands, knows that out here, Harry and he can still pretend that time is standing still. “I was scared, that’s all. And fuck, I still am, but I was wrong.”
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to survive a year without you,” Harry goes on, making it harder and harder and Louis wishes he’d stop. “What if a year isn’t enough? I don’t –”
“Stop,” Louis begs him. “Please. We have a week, don’t we? I don’t want to spend all of that time worrying about everything. I just want to spend it with you. Can we do that? Just – be together and not think about anything else?”
Harry’s icy hand closes around his wrist, making his pulse jump and his blood run hot again. He doesn’t say anything in return and they remain frozen in the water for another while, wind blowing around them and sea gushing loudly.
When they finally return to the confines of their bedroom, shivering with their skin tinged blue, Louis makes quick work of undressing them both, Harry’s eyes bearing a weight they haven’t shown before. Louis lowers his eyes and pushes Harry back into the sheets, climbs on top of him to settle on his hips. He slowly works their bodies into a sweat, raking his nails across the expanse of Harry’s milky chest and shoulders, muscles taut and twitching every time he sinks down.
He watches Harry’s body curl und uncurl underneath him, arms reaching above his head to grapple for the wooden bars as he sucks his lower lip into his mouth and bares the long, tempting line of his neck. Louis attacks it with his teeth, pressing as close as humanly possible, back straining and thighs starting to ache with the effort to keep moving. When Harry hurtles over the edge, Louis feels it all the way down to his toes, doesn’t have time to catch his breath before Harry’s turned him over and shimmies down his body.
It never ceases to be overwhelming, the warmth that spreads all over his body. After everything that’s happened, Louis has become terrified of drowning. But he’d happily drown in Harry over and over again.
In the end, they barely have five days. The morning of the fifth day, Niall and Liam come back, Paul and some luggage in-tow, as well as the required (but nonetheless forged) documents for Louis and Zayn to leave the country. Harry is stoically silent, jaw set and expression sombre as they pack up the little bits they’d taken to the cottage. Louis’ hands don’t stop shaking and he can barely breathe when he climbs into one of two carriages with Harry and Zayn. The plan is to drive together until they reach Chester, then Niall, Zayn and Louis will take one carriage up to Liverpool, where their ship will leave the port for New York early in the morning. Harry and Liam will drive south, back to London and act as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.
It’s all happening so fast. Louis didn’t even get the chance to say a proper goodbye to the lads, or even London, because in spite of the bad memories he has of it and the rough life he’s lived, it was home. The smoking chimney and the dirty alleys, the crooked brick houses and the fog that never seemed to lift.
Louis prays that the journey will take long, hours on end, drawn out so that he has time to collect himself, to think about what on earth he’s supposed to say to Harry when they have to part. He doesn’t want to cry, promised himself that he wouldn’t, because this isn’t supposed to be goodbye, even when it’s more and more starting to feel that way. Squeezing Harry’s hand tightly, he turns his face into Harry’s neck, tries to swallow down his rising panic, needs to force away the burning ache sitting right behind his breastbone.
At one point, exhaustion and lack of sleep over the last few days must take their toll, because when he opens his eyes next, they’re coming to a halt. The cabin stills and Zayn gets out, but Louis can’t move. His lungs are burning with how little air he’s able to draw in and everything is starting to swim in front of his eyes, reality setting in. Someone takes him by his wrist and pulls, Zayn probably, and Louis barely manages to get to his feet, nearly falls face first out of the carriage.
It smells fresh and sharp and everything is startlingly green, but Louis can’t see farther than the gravel road to his feet, and a few yards of surrounding fields. He sways, is close to toppling over, close to dry-heaving because he feels sick, feels physically ill with how much every suddenly hurts. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees bodies moving, people saying goodbye. He thinks Harry might be hugging Niall as Zayn is keeping a steadying hand on Louis’ elbow, talking quietly to keep him from completely losing his mind.
Louis can’t do it. He really can’t do it.
Zayn steps to the side and suddenly, Harry’s face is all he can see, and Louis – he should’ve known he’d crumble like a house of cards.
“Stop crying,” he manages to choke out, looking at Harry’s tear-streaked face. He’s not sobbing out right, just silently spilling tears down his cheeks and Louis isn’t sure if that doesn’t make it worse. “Fuck, you’re going to make me cry as well.”
“You already are,” Harry retorts smiling wetly.
Instead of a reply, Louis sags forward against Harry’s chest. His legs give out and he clings to his shoulders for all it’s worth. “Fuck,” he breathes out through his clenched teeth. His chest is shattering, someone digging into it to tear his ribs out, one by one by one. “Fuck.”
Harry can’t keep upright, can’t keep up Louis’ body along with his own and they crumble down to their knees. Louis feels the sting as tiny pebbles dig into his body, but he doesn’t feel it as well, fading compared with the blinding ache that spreads from his head all the way down to his toes. They probably make a pathetic little picture, Louis thinks, clinging to each other on the dirty ground by the side of a country road near Chester, but he doesn’t care anymore; doesn’t care that Zayn and Niall and Liam, and probably Paul, see him cry, because Harry is all that matters and Harry is all that will ever matter and having to willingly walk away from him is worse than anything Magee or Cobb could have ever done to him.
“I don’t want to say goodbye,” he breathes against the soft and sweetly smelling skin of Harry’s neck. “I can’t.”
“Then don’t,” Harry echoes Louis’ own words. It’s just been a few days, but it already feels like a lifetime ago. “This isn’t goodbye, all right?” His voice is strained, his breath hitching again and again, hiccuping in and out. “I’ll come after. I will. Don’t care how long it takes.”
There are warm and familiar hands, fingers brushing up his neck and coming to cradle his face, then Harry, suddenly soft and bright, saying, “Lou, look at me.”
He blinks his eyes open, lashes stuck together and tears pearling down his face, but this is just like that very first moment, that first hitch of his heart in his chest, unexplainable and irrational but there nonetheless and it’s never gone away and Louis know now that it never will.
“I’ll find you. I promise,” and he kisses Louis like he’d kissed him that first time, unhinged and desperate and full of longing, before the weight of their lives had started to curl their backs. Louis gives back in kind, opening up to him and letting Harry dip his head back to get better access to his mouth, his cheeks, his jaw.
“I’ll wait,” Louis replies before dipping in again, drawing Harry even closer, fingers running through his curls, kisses starting to taste salty. He presses another one to Harry’s lips and leans their foreheads together, closes his eyes and breathes harshly through his nose, Harry still so temptingly close and he could do this all day, all week, but someone clears their throat, bursting their bubble.
“We need to go.” It’s Niall and when Louis sends a quick glance at him over Harry’s shoulder, he sees that his eyes are red as well, and his cheeks blotchy, dotted with red. “I’m sorry.”
It’s not Niall’s place to apologise for anything, and they do need to leave, can’t stay out in the open for much longer because people could pass and words could carry, but Louis doesn’t feel able to get to his feet. He’s physically unable to disentangle himself from Harry. He’s always been stubborn, so he keeps hugging Harry close, lips pressed to his pulse point and clings to him until there’s a pair of hands on his arms, pulling him away.
Louis tries to hold on, but there isn’t an ounce of strength left in his body. He gets dragged to his feet and Harry slumps back, leaning back on his haunches, arms motionless by his sides. He remains kneeled on the road and watches as Zayn and Niall put Louis between them, slowly but steadily moving him to their awaiting carriage. They turn around, but Louis looks back over his shoulder, eyes glued to Harry’s immobile form through a wet curtain that’s rapidly darkening around the edges. He tries to pull away again, and he silently prays for Harry to get up and stop them, because Louis doesn’t want to leave.
He sees that Liam places a calming hand on Harry’s shoulder before he’s bundled into the small, dark cabin and his view is cut off, he can’t see Harry anymore and he can’t –
“I can’t breathe,” he presses out, grappling for his collar, everything too tight all of a sudden, cutting off his air supply. “I can’t fucking breathe,” and he tries to tear at the buttons, shaking fingers slipping and unable to grab anything.
“You can,” Zayn’s voice sounds in his ears. “In and out, Louis. Just slowly, in and out.”
Louis can’t. The carriage starts moving, and he actually can’t. He twists his body towards the small window at the back, presses his forehead against the cold glass, which momentarily sharpens his focus enough to make out Harry, still kneeling in that same spot, still looking after them and Louis wants him to move, to run after them, to do something. Because all Louis can do is watch as Harry becomes smaller and smaller, fading in the distance until he’s entirely gone.
The carriage keeps moving and the world keeps spinning and soon, there’ll be an entire ocean between them, and he might never see him again.
Louis can’t breathe.
+++
Chapter 9: Epilogue.
Chapter Text
And down the long and silent street,
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.
Oscar Wilde, The Harlot’s House
+++
It’s been a long and dry summer that’s turned grass and reed yellow, the roads leading from Huntington around the Bay glistening; making the air above them simmer with heat. It’s been nearly unbearable, even worse than the one before, hardly cooling down in the night, gusts of winds from the ocean barely any relief at all, sweat sticking to skin from sunrise to sunset. But now the days are becoming shorter and over the last few days, temperatures have dropped seemingly by the hour.
The walk from the town centre along the east shore is once again pleasant and a soft breeze is cooling Louis’ forehead as he adjusts the strap of his bag on his shoulder, ground still hard and split beneath his feet. He could use a dip into the sea before it gets too dark, but he still feels a little uneasy around large bodies of water, only ever managing to get in to his hips, afraid of hands reaching out to pull him under. There are many nights he lies awake, not because of the heat he is – after spending his entire life in England – still not used to, but because Louis is sure he can smell the foul sewers, that wet and mouldy scent.
Louis doubts that is ever going to go away. These are memories that will haunt him for the rest of his life.
But it is an actual life now, as hard as he finds it to believe sometimes. There are groceries in his bag, and a pint of milk, along with his notebooks and a copy of today’s paper. The people at school where he helps out every other day greet him with a smile and the children he teaches how to read have just this week started on Alice in Wonderland. When he doesn’t tutor them, he goes to see Niall and his slowly becoming senile great-aunt at the other end of the impressive property he and Zayn also live on.
It still feels strange, walking up to a porch that is his and enter a house that Niall said he should call home. It’s only starting to look like a home, mostly thanks to Niall filling it to the brim with unnecessary objects Louis couldn’t even name and old aunt Mary knitting quilts and throws to keep occupied since her grandnephew has taken over the management of her various properties and businesses. And it should be starting to feel like a home too with Zayn leaving traces of him everywhere, brushes and pots of paint and paper and chalks. He’s taken to this new place and this new life like Louis simply can’t, perhaps because Zayn doesn’t have something (or someone) that keeps part of his mind anchored in the past.
There are dozens of notebooks filled with Louis’ hasty scrawl that are proof of that; proof of the fact that he is so absolutely terrified of forgetting, of starting to want to forget. So he’s written everything down, every word and every impression and thought and motion and touch, because he wants to move on and he wants to hold on and he’s probably lying to himself in both cases.
Truth is, Louis doesn’t know what the hell he’s even thinking. He’s barely managing, if he’s being honest with himself, going day by day, one after the other, because this is another secret he keeps; the folded piece of paper he keeps in the drawer of his nightstand. It’s filled with dashes, one for each day since he boarded that damned boat in Liverpool.
And it feels like he hasn’t taken a single breath since.
Frowning around the ache in his shoulder that never seems to go completely away, Louis opens the front door. It screeches in its hinges, and Louis makes a mental note to see Paul, get some oil and a screwdriver, perhaps also something to seal the small gaps in the window to prepare for the colder seasons. He kicks off his shoes and drops his bag, bends down to get the bottle of milk, two tins of beans and a loaf of bread. He walks along the hallway and into the kitchen and sitting room, fireplace in the left hand corner, wide window panels showing the porch that surrounds the entire house. There’s no garden, no walls or fences, just a few yards of reed and then a sheer endless stretch of sand, deep blue ocean extending to the horizon.
The glass doors leading outside are wide open.
Louis nearly drops the groceries, barely catches himself, setting everything down on the small kitchen table carefully, heart rate picking up, because he knows Zayn won’t be back from New York City until late in the evening and he’s sure it can’t be Niall. They’d made plans to meet the next day and Louis and Zayn usually make their way to the big house that sits on the very tip of the estate.
His eyes flicker across the room quickly. There’s nothing else out of the ordinary, no signs of intrusion, so maybe he or Zayn had just accidentally forgotten to lock the doors. The wind gets strong this close to the water. It’s not entirely impossible. But there’s just something tugging at Louis’ sternum that tells him that’s not the case.
He rounds the table, soft rug muffling his steps but floorboards creaking nonetheless, hands shaking, arms stiff by his side. The setting sun is flooding into the room and Louis has to blink against the orange light as he steps over the threshold and out onto the porch. The breeze has picked up and the salty air whirls around him immediately, blowing his hair away from his face. The sound of the incoming tide that usually calms him down at night does nothing for his quickening heartbeat.
It takes a few moments for his eyes to get used to harshness of the wind, but then his vision clears, and Louis takes a couple more steps to the edge of the porch. Almost on their own, his legs move down the small set of stairs, his bare feet dig into warm, smooth sand and he keeps going, for some reason he just knows he has to keep going and he does, past the reed and the rolling dunes until he suddenly sees a tall figure a couple of yards ahead, facing the sea. Soft cotton shirt and slim trousers, a coat discarded a foot away in the sand. Dark curls moving in the breeze.
It’s been five hundred and twenty-seven days. And when Louis takes a breath, his lungs finally fill with air.
“Harry.” He stumbles forward.
When he turns around, it’s as if someone has landed a solid punch to his chest. Harry still looks the same, although Louis’ memories of him didn’t do him justice in the slightest, and yet he looks entirely different as well. His hair is longer, his jaw is more pronounced and there’s a weight to his entire being that wasn’t there before, all innocence wiped away. But his eyes are still unusually green, and they bear the same warmth and kindness. They’re still the only pair, Louis thinks, which really see him.
For a moment, he wonders what they actually see, how Louis’ changed in Harry’s eyes; if he notices the much darker colour of his skin from being exposed to the sun, the way he’s still small and skinny but not skin and bones anymore, or the white, thin scars that now grace his hands.
Louis hasn’t cried since leaving Harry on a deserted road near Chester. The first tear that rolls down his cheek comes as a surprise – the second, not so much. He smiles, or rather, he attempts to, aware that he’s shaking like a leaf, feet unsteady in the sand.
“You’re late,” he tells him and his heart feels close to boiling point when Harry smiles back, eyes wet, dimples still there and cutting deeply into his cheeks.
“I know,” Harry says, slowly approaching and Louis itches to reach out and touch him, but at the same time, he’s terrified of hallucinating it all, of Harry slipping through his fingers like dust and the horror of waking up alone yet again. If this is an illusion, Louis doesn’t want to shatter it. “There were some loose ends that needed to be tied. It took a lot longer than I thought. But I promised, didn’t I? I promised I’d find you.”
His breath hitches. If he were to stretch out his arm, Louis could place his palm over Harry beating heart. “You did. And I said I’d wait.”
And here they are, over three thousand miles away and five hundred and twenty-seven days later, and Louis still loves him as much as he’d loved him on a cold and rainy day in February just outside the Houses of Parliament and as much as he’d loved him in a candlelit room in Knightsbridge and a small cottage in Wales and a narrow road somewhere outside Chester – perhaps even more. He reaches out, because Louis needs him to be real, and when his hand fists the fabric of Harry shirt and his knuckles brush warm, soft skin, his body just sags forward.
Harry still feels the same and he smells just the same as well, subtle soap with a hint of lavender and that tiny trace of citrus, most prominent just below his ear and down his neck, perfect for Louis to turn his face into.
“I’m sorry I made you wait,” Harry’s deep voice curls over him like a soft and gently wave, and Louis shakes his head against the crook of Harry’s neck, because Harry’s here and he’s got nothing to be sorry for.
Louis breathes in deeply, and then again, and then again just because he’s finally able to. He presses his lips against Harry’s pulse.
“Let’s go home.”
+++
the end.
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