Work Text:
Once upon a time, there was a boy.
But not just any sort of boy. This was a clever boy, the cleverest of them all, you see. Mind full of magic, the boy could conjure any adventure he so chose - exciting games full of pirates and treasure and chase and bravery. So wonderful were these games that soon all the lads in the surrounding streets wanted to be the boy's friend and play with him. But when adults found out that the boy was so powerful - that he could enchant the minds of those around him with joy and delight - they tried to take him and force him to grow up, to forget his silly dreams.
But the boy, he was too smart for that, much too precocious. He took his magic and he ran away, up up up to the sky, in a secret place only those who know where to look for it will find.
And in this secret place, Louis - the fantastic, clever boy - created Neverland.
A terrible crack resonates through the small attic room, the door swinging open hard enough it ricochets into the wall behind it, sending down a cloud of dust from the rafters above. Mr. Corden looms into the room, his gold-headed cane raised high above his head as he taps it again into the door. The trip up the stairs must have winded him as his face is blotchy with exertion, sweat pebbled up at his temples as he surveys the room.
"I said lights out twenty minutes ago!" He bellows, chest heaving as he gasps into a raspy breath. "How many times am I going to find you lot up here?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Corden. It's just that Harry-" Felix, always one to speak up but never quite nailing the proper response, is fast to start in.
"Oi. Harry. Of course." Mr. Corden turns toward the mentioned boy, raising a brow beneath his greased hair. "Always a troublemaker, aren't you? Have been since the day you showed up on me doorstep. A bit old for this, wouldn't you say? Might have mistook you for a nursemaid with all these lads around you."
The boy in question is sitting on the small bench just below the only window in the room, his striped pajamas hanging on his frame, threadbare from age. He's got an old book opened across his lap, an emerald strip of satin ribbon laid over the page he's on. It's the one he usually uses to hold his hair back, much too long for a boy of eighteen but the barber stopped giving out charity cuts months ago. Tucking his loose curls behind his ear, Harry nibbles on his bottom lip before replying in a slow, soft voice.
"I'm sorry, sir. Just a story before bed. Meant no harm."
Mr. Corden didn't get into the orphanage business out of the goodness of his heart. There is money to be made - usually - if the market is right. Pretty girls sold to sad mothers. Boys to the factory or to stables if they're lucky enough. But the market hasn't been right in a long time and the orphanage is overrun with the litter. He narrows his eyes at the boys all crowded around Harry's feet. They're a mixture of ages - the youngest at seven with the oldest being the two other boys in Harry's own bracket.
"Meant no harm but disregarded the rules again. When will you ever learn, Harry? You know, I hate doing this, lad. You leave me no choice, though.”
Mr. Corden's cane swings again, the polished wood glinting in the pale moonlight from the window, before it cracks solidly over the back of Harry's hands – splitting his knuckles. He doesn't cry out, but he rocks forward, fingertips curling around the book to keep it from tumbling from his lap. Harry knew the punishment before it was even dealt with – has been given worse before for smaller infractions.
"Now. To bed. With all of you lot! Unless you also want it?" Mr. Corden raises his cane and instantly the boys scatter, little feet tapping on the hardwood as they flee to their own rooms. It only takes a moment before all that is left is the three that reside in the room - Harry among them.
"You're much too old for this," Mr. Corden spits in disgust, turning away from where Harry's knuckle has split, the blood pooling and then dripping onto the back of his hand. "All three of you, really. When I was your age, I was already a proper businessman. Had me own house and all. And what do the three of you have? Your stories? Make-believe? Pathetic."
"It was just a story, sir. The young ones - they beg for them." From his place on his mattress, Niall rubs his hands down his thighs, anxious and tugging at the thin fabric. "Haz is the best storyteller around–"
“And will that put food on the table, huh? Does that keep us warm at night?” Mr. Corden rolls his eyes, beyond his limit with them. “No one is going to adopt a grown child. You lot need to go out and find work. Give back to the charity that kept you safe and dry. Show some appreciation, yeah? Instead of losing yourself to some storybook.”
“Sir, please. I didn’t mean–“ Harry starts, holding his hand carefully so as not to drip blood from his own knuckles onto the page.
"Enough. Lights out." With another wave of his cane, Mr. Corden turns his back, heading toward the door. He’s done hearing the excuses. It rattles loudly when he yanks it closed, casting the room once again into darkness.
As soon as his heavy footfalls are down the stairs, Niall is up and off his bed, rushing over to Harry. He makes a soft, distraught sort of whimper when he sees the back of Harry's hands, instantly picking one up in his own. The cane caught on the rounded knuckles of Harry’s left hand the worst, splitting the ones at the base of his middle and ring fingers.
"Oh, Harry," Niall starts, gasping sharply, but Harry just shakes his head, resigned.
"It's alright. Knew it would happen if we got caught. ‘Tis a scratch, is all. Knuckles of steel by now."
He sends a watery smile up at his friend for reassurance, slipping off the bench to go to the water basin in the corner. Its China bowl is chipped in the corner so Harry has to be careful when he pours from the pitcher into the basin, wetting a cloth and laying it over the worst of the damage. It’ll be worse tomorrow when the scabs will crack open from the bitterly cold London air, the chores that Harry will certainly be instructed to complete. For now, all he can do is wrap it up and try to keep the wounds clean.
"Lot of help you were," Niall starts speaking again, sending a glare toward the third bed and the boy perched upon it. “Couldn’t even stand up for him?”
"I said it was a bad idea the moment Felix and William showed up. You didn't want to listen to me." Liam - perfectly posh in his starched pajamas and close-cropped hair - pushes into his mattress, tugging his blanket up to his chin. He'd like to think himself better than everyone here, but the truth is, they're all just as equally forgotten and unwanted. Liam just figures himself a step above because at least his parents died, didn’t just disappear. "Next time, you should send them away."
"They're only kids," Niall goes to fight, voice raising, but Harry is quick to shush him, shaking his head.
"Don't. It's fine, Ni. No need to get into a row."
Carefully, he pads to his own bed, the small one by the window, winter moonlight spilling over his pillow. It's cold over here, the draft something awful, but Harry can't stand the darkness, the depressing wood of the attic, the dark rafters with their cobwebs and mold. He'd rather lay and stare at the stars – or the few he can see past the city lights – than be faced with the peeling wood and chipped paint.
Settling down with his own blanket, Harry stares out at the building nearby, the small curls of smoke from their chimney trailing up into the air. He wonders if the family next door is having a nice evening by the fire, if their mother is reading them stories, if the family dog is laying on the hearth. Do they feel loved and safe within each other's company? Not lacking or lonely or sad? Do they even know what happens in the large orphanage next door? A few dozen boys left to be forgotten like discarded toys long after Christmas?
"Harry," Niall says on a yawn, the word stretched out thin in his wide mouth. "What happened next?"
"Hm? With what?" Harry pulls himself back from his daydreaming, turning his head on the pillow. He can just barely make out Niall's golden hair in the dark, peeking out above his thin sheet.
"In the story. With Louis. And Neverland." He yawns again, already falling asleep. Exhausted from a long day of cleaning house and cooking. "What's Neverland like?"
"Oh, it's the most beautiful of places," Harry muses, letting his eyes close as he speaks, imagining what a place it must be. If he thinks hard enough, he can almost feel the warm breeze from the ocean, the salt in the air. "Trees as tall as buildings with big green leaves for fairies to hide under when it rains. A river that sings as it goes over its rapids. Fairies and pirates and wonderful beasts – the best Louis could imagine. And it’s always warm, never cold and dreary like here."
"And he's there all by himself?" Liam sounds just as exhausted but entirely unimpressed. "How boring."
"No. He brings other boys there. Sad ones that need to be saved," Harry replies softly, ignoring the mocking tone in Liam's voice. Regardless of his bravado act, Harry knows he likes the stories, too. "Anyone who calls for him."
"Maybe he'll come for us," Niall whispers, a dreamy little thought that seems to follow him as he falls asleep.
It follows Harry, too. He dreams of a beautiful forest, vines and moss and flowers with lights that unfurl from the heavy foliage. In his dream, fairies peek out from the hollows of the trees and come to swirl around Harry who stands in a small clearing, surrounded by waving grass and clover. Harry has just been given a crown of lilies, led into a twirling sort of dance with the small beings, when he's being jolted away by a low thud.
Rolling over on the lumpy straw mattress, Harry pushes his curls out of his eyes and looks around. Across from him, Niall is still stretched out on his stomach, snoring low in his throat while Liam, a few meters away, is drooling onto his pillow. Harry can barely seem much else in the darkness, peering around, until movement at the end of his bed catches his eye.
There, perched just beyond his footboard half encased in shadow, is a boy. Or, Harry thinks it's a boy – standing in just a pair of trousers, the cuff cut and jagged like he'd worn it too many times and it has become fragile with age. His hair is a wild mess of sharp spikes and curls, half flopped onto his face, fringe swooping over his forehead as the boy boldly steps forward, hands on his hips.
"Hello." Harry doesn't remember seeing him in the orphanage before and he has been here for so very long. Nor does he think Mr. Corden would allow anyone to run around with that much dirt streaked onto their feet and hands.
"Hello." The boy's voice is light, grin gone wide before he suddenly rushes forward. He's up and over the footboard in a moment, as if he lept, but when he lands on the mattress it barely shakes under his weight. This close, the moonlight catches on his face, illuminates him so Harry can see his glimmering blue eyes, the sharp upturn of his nose, his pink lips curved into a coy smirk. Harry isn't used to beautiful things – not much to shine in a place like this – but he can tell the boy is beautiful. Probably the most beautiful Harry's ever seen and he's seen the boys at the private school up the road before.
"What are you doing?" Harry asks, confused as the boy leans in closer, gaze tracking over him like he's studying, as if he'd never been so close to another boy before. It reminds Harry a bit of a fox, peering out of its hollow – confused but curious. "Who are you?"
"You know who I am." The boy rolls his eyes, giving a little toss of his head. A silver hook catches the light, looped in through the bottom of his earlobe, a few strands of ribbon and feathers tied into a makeshift earring. "You talk about me all the time. Know all my stories. That's why I'm here. I come to the window to listen but you didn't finish it tonight."
"Oh." Harry is sure he's still caught in a dream somewhere, lost in the space between reality and fantasy. That's the only explanation he can give when he just accepts it for what it is. "You're Louis Tomlinson."
"The one and only." Louis inches closer, the heat of his bare chest nearly brushing into Harry's own nightshirt as he grins. "So, how did it end then?"
"The story? It didn't end. You created Neverland and your adventures just began." Harry shrugs a little, using his fingertips to pick at a loose thread on his blanket. He isn’t sure why but something warm has settled in his stomach, fluttering softly like butterfly wings beating against his ribs. “You have many other stories after that.”
"Oh, rubbish!" Louis tosses his head back, this time making a bit of a scoffing noise in his throat. It sends his sharp jawline into the light, making him look otherworldly. That must be the norm, Harry figures, with magical boys – they always look a little unreal. "What will I tell the other lads then?"
"Other lads?" Harry asks, looking around as if other strange boys will suddenly make themselves known, peeking around the corner and from under beds. Louis seems the type to always have a band of rowdy but loyal mates around him.
"Yes. I come to hear the stories and then I take them back to the lads at the Tree House. They're very fond of the ones where we fight pirates." Louis, unabashedly, reaches out a hand, snatching Harry's from where it rests atop the covers. “Or the dragons. Or the princess with the long hair. You tell many stories.”
“You go on many adventures.” Harry tries not to flinch as Louis prods his thumb gently over the wound. The cloth is tied loosely around his palm and Louis seems solemn when he flips Harry’s hand over, gently inspecting the knot.
“That old man doesn't like your stories, does he?"
"He thinks I should grow up," Harry answers honestly, resists the urge to pull his hand out of the warm grip. It feels too real. Like a dream too close to the surface.
"Grown-ups love to say those things. But you know," Louis looks up through his lashes, the corner of his mouth rising into a smirk. "They rarely know what they're talking about. Grown-ups are just children who have forgotten how to believe."
"Believe?" Harry asks, entranced as Louis brushes his thumb over the bandage.
"In magic, of course." Louis grins and Harry feels the warmth from the sunny expression. “It’s no bother, though.”
Scooting up on his knees, Louis doesn’t let go of Harry’s hand as he climbs off the bed, tugging on it until Harry has no choice but to throw the covers off himself and follow. Louis doesn’t seem the type to have much patience. They make it over the hardened, scuffed floor and Louis jumps on the bench by the window, the glass already thrown open. He makes it all the way up onto the ledge before Harry plants his heels, leaning back with a soft cry.
“No!”
“What?” Louis’ accent garbles the word in his mouth as he turns to look over his shoulder, lips pinched in what can only be annoyance.
“What are you doing? You’ll fall!”
Harry steps forward only far enough to raise his other hand and grip onto Louis’ forearm, tugging until the other boy steps back onto the bench. He’s far enough away from the open window that Harry feels relieved but it’s short-lived considering how close he was to plummeting downward. They’re in the attic and the orphanage is a tall, crooked sort of building.
“Well, how else am I to take you back with me? It’s just there,” Louis points a finger out to where the stars blink dim and tired above the city lights. Just to the right of the moon, second one over, gleams one brighter than the rest, though. “Not such a long trip. You’ll be alright.”
“I can’t just–” Slowly, Harry begins to extract his hand from Louis’, curling it to his chest as he continues. “I can’t just leave here.”
“Why not?” Setting his hands to his hips, Louis peers down from the bench at Harry, bare chest puffed out a little in frustration.
“Because, I have responsibilities.” Harry doesn’t know why it feels so incredibly heavy to remember that this is a dream. No matter who or what has come to rescue him in his dreams, none of that translates to reality. He has a job to do when he wakes and it’s not to have fantasies about magical, wonderful boys with eyes made of oceans and a smirk stretched over his lips. “And I have Niall and Liam. I can’t leave them behind.”
“But I want you to come with me,” Louis repeats himself like it’s the most simple thing in the world. That it must be done because he wants it to be so. “You’re my storyteller.”
“I can’t.” Retreating, Harry sits on his bed, shoulders curled forward tightly. How can a dream be so bittersweet? “I’m meant to be here. My place is here.”
“But what will I tell the lads?” Not leaving his perch atop the bench, Louis’ fingers flex on his hips, lip curved down in a pout. “You’ve left it half finished!”
Sighing deeply, Harry shrugs his shoulders a little. The truth of it all is that Harry doesn’t know what will happen from day to day, nor is he ever really certain that he’ll return to this attic room. Sure, he’s way past the age of adoption. No one wants an eighteen-year-old orphan. He’s practically a man. But that doesn’t mean Mr. Corden couldn’t sell him to the mines. They’re always looking for capable boys who aren’t in a position to say no. That is where Harry’s life is leading, he knows it, a life of servitude in one capacity or another.
“I’ll just have to come tomorrow.” Letting out a giant sigh at the inconvenience, Louis rolls his eyes. “If I remember. And you’ll finish it, yes? At least give me something good to bring back since I can’t bring you.”
“I can try.” Harry doesn’t see the point in arguing with a figment of his imagination – regardless of how real this all feels. “How will I know you’re listening?”
“I never lie.” Pursing his lips, Louis takes a step backward, balancing on the balls of his feet. “I’ll be here at the window, as always.”
“Alright.” Harry nods once, feels his eyes growing heavy the longer he tries to watch Louis against the darkened night sky. He has the sudden sense that he should be sleeping, that the pillow is rising up to meet him and his whole body has gone warm and lax. The last thing he remembers is the smirk growing on Louis’ face – bold and unapologetically gleeful. Like a cat that got the cream.
- - -
From the moment the sun first crests over the Thames, the orphanage is a flurry of motion. The full roster holds thirty-five boys ages four to nineteen and each of them have a specific list of things to do in the morning. Chores are started – cooking of breakfast, the washing of the floors, the laundry piled up from so many sheets and trousers. The windows will need to be washed, the cinders before the fireplaces swept, and the visitation area spotless on the off chance that someone will come to visit today and pick out their new child.
Harry often gets sequestered to help in the kitchens – rolling the dough with an apron on to cover his only set of ‘play clothes’. They’re a sad, thin pair of brown trousers, a few sizes too big so they hang on his frame, held up with a bit of rope knotted twice in the front. His shirt, patched in the elbows, is a gray sort of cotton, buttons sewn on tight by Harry’s nimble hands. Niall had managed to find him a bit of ribbon a few weeks back and Harry has used it to tie his long curls up, tucking them into a bun to keep them from his face.
He's just pushed the last loaf of bread into the large oven, back of his hand pressed to his sweaty forehead, when the back door to the garden is thrown open. Liam comes in first, carrying a large sack of flour and corn meal, and then immediately after is Niall with a small barrel of vegetables. They’ve been to market – a smelly, boisterous, low-class chore that Mr. Corden would never lower himself to do. Not the master of the house in his pressed suits and shined shoes. No, this he gives to the oldest boys in the house with the clear instruction that if they take advantage of Mr. Corden’s trust, it will be to the gallows with them.
“Got the turnips, Haz, but they were out of onions. Do you think the parsnips will work?” Niall heaves the handles of the wagon up and then over the door frame, settling the whole thing against the wall. The wood groans under the weight, a few sad potatoes peeking out the bowed sides.
“I doubt he’ll notice.” Shrugging, Harry wipes his hands on his apron. “And if he does, I’ll just tell him I put some in.”
“Might have a few spare scallions out there,” Liam tosses his head to the side, motioning to the small patch of green to the left of the paved courtyard. It’s a miserable excuse for a vegetable garden, just a few wilted heads of kale and some tomato vines left sparse. It had been Harry’s project – a passion project, really – but the clouds and the moody rains over London hadn’t exactly fostered much product.
“Could just tell the arsehole to cook his own damn stew. Not that he’d know an onion from his own fucking balls. Probably smell the same,” Niall mutters under his breath, eliciting a surprisingly loud chuckle out of Liam, whose face grows hot when he realizes he shouldn’t have laughed.
“You know that for fact then, Nialler?” Harry grins wide, eyebrows raised as he plucks a sad little apple from the top of the barrel. “Been fondling the queen’s crown jewels?”
“Harry!” Liam looks gob smacked, mouth left open in shock. “You bite your tongue.”
“I’m not the one who said it!” Harry says around a bite of the fruit, motioning with his full hand toward where Niall is cackling into his palm.
“Oi! Watch out!”
It all happens very quickly. Quicker than anyone can really catch.
One minute, the three older boys are getting around to finish their chores and then in the next, they are being disturbed by the shouting of small voices and the booming bark of a large dog. The beast is a mass of black curly fur and long ears - slobbering mouth held open in glee as he bounds into the kitchen followed closely by a gaggle of boys. Muddy paw marks and scuffed footprints litter the freshly-scrubbed tile floor, voices raised in shock and glee as the dog immediately veers toward the meat cooler left open from the morning delivery.
"The sausage!" Harry gasps in horror, pointing a finger toward the long string left suspended from the ceiling.
"Fuck!"
Liam and Niall both dive together, trying to block the dog's path, only to end up colliding into a pile of limbs. Somehow, one of them managed to catch the large sack of flour on a stray button, the fabric letting out a loud rip as white powder begins pouring out and onto the floor in a billowing cloud. It sticks to the mud on the floor, dusting over the counters, the sink, the dishes, and any boy standing close enough to get caught in its path.
Side stepping over Lucas and William, Harry manages to get around the counter only to trip over Casper, pinwheeling his legs until he falls to the ground with a loud crash. He manages to slide the door shut to the cooler from where he is, but doesn't have enough space - splayed out prone on his back - to escape as the dog sits beside him, happily licking his face in broad, wet strokes.
"Clifford! Clifford, no!" William is giggling as he tries to tug on the dog's collar, fur now matted and dusty white in spots from the flour. "Bad boy!"
"Why do you have a dog?" Niall groans pitifully, hand pressed to his forehead where he must have smacked it into Liam's. "Why do you have a dog?"
"We found him at the docks!" Lucas proclaims in all his six-year-old gusto, hands proudly on his hips, chest puffed out. "He was all alone, so we rescued him. He's an orphan too!"
“He’s not an orphan. He’s a dog,” someone sasses from the doorway – the rest of the group being smart enough not to enter.
“But he can be our dog!” William reaches out a dark hand, petting along the dog’s head. “We already know his name. C-L-I-F-F-O-R-D! Clifford!”
“Good job, lad,” Liam nods approvingly, even if the effect is slightly ruined by the flour coating his beard.
“Can we keep him, Harry? Please?” Casper’s big eyes – an uncanny shade of gray – peer out from around the counter, bottom lip curled down. He's a frail little thing, not yet six with a pale coloring that makes him seem almost translucent, like a strong breeze could come through and whisk him away.
“I don’t–“
Harry never gets to finish his sentence as the swinging door to the kitchen slams into the wall behind him. Mr. Corden looms in from the dark hallway, his top hat askew above his shiny, red face. He has his best suit on – the gray one with the large buttons – which must mean he was entertaining someone. A potential parent perhaps, though more likely one of his wealthy friends that often visits the orphanage out of the goodness of their hearts. He takes one look around the kitchen – the mess of flour, the group of boys, the back door wide open, large dog perched proudly, vegetables half toppled onto the floor – and slams his cane so hard into the plaster it scatters small chunks of it all over the tile.
“You little shits!” His voice booms along the low-pitched ceiling, so loud that even the dog whimpers, sitting back on his haunches with a pitiful whine, tail tucked. “You miserable little urchins!”
“Sir, if I could just–“ Liam tries to interject, raising his finger as he begins an explanation, only to be cut off as the cane swings again. It catches him in the cheek, not hard enough to break the bone but enough to split the skin, blood pouring down from the gash and mixing in with the flour to make a mess of paste along his jaw.
The others in the room all freeze, too horrified to move or instigate more fury or shift the focus. Mr. Corden's chest heaves, his arms bulging in the tweed fabric of his suit. A vein in his neck throbs as he looks around the kitchen, eyes glassy with fury. He's a monster getting ready to strike again, homing in on his next target like a hunter surrounded by trapped prey. Casper is still leaning out from behind the counter, eyes huge, and Mr. Corden swings again.
The cane never makes its intended contact. With a horrified cry, Harry throws himself in the way, bracketing his arms around Casper's small body so the wooden pole slams into his back. It stings something fierce, and the wind is knocked out of Harry in a sharp gasp, left to slump over, eyes watering. There will be a bruise there, a nasty one to match his hands, but Harry glares up at the large, heaving man with nothing less than loathing.
"He's a little boy!" Voice cracking, Harry's tone has gone hard, brittle on the edges. He is powerfully powerless. "He's just a little boy, barely five years old. Sir, you can’t."
"Ah."
When Mr. Corden raises his cane again, Harry stares up at him, eyes huge but waiting for the next blow. It doesn't come in the way expected, the metal tip rising to press just under Harry's chin, bringing his face up.
"He is a little boy. But you," Mr. Corden leans in, a hint of a smirk pulling on his thin lips. "You are not."
He leans in further then, his foul breath ghosting over Harry's face, reeking of the sausage he had for breakfast and weak tea. There is a bit of gold attached to one of his molars and it glints when it catches the light. Cane tilted higher, Mr. Corden forces Harry's throat to stretch at an awkward angle, Adam’s apple bobbing. Laid out prone like something to be dissected.
“You’re not a little boy at all, are you, Harry?” Mr. Corden sneers down his nose, tone gone to ice. “Perhaps it’s time I start treating you like it.”
“Sir–“ Harry starts to say but it’s no use as Mr. Corden wrenches away, standing to his full height.
“It’s time you grow up!” His voice bellows once more across the kitchen. One of the boys in the doorway starts crying, his friend quick to wrap his arm around him and muffle it.
“Tomorrow morning, I want you out of my house. Go to the mines. Get work. Or find another way to make it in this world.” Straightening the lapels on his suit, Mr. Corden’s beady eyes sweep over the room with an unimpressed snarl. “As for you lot, clean this mess up immediately and then go to bed. No supper for misbehaving boys.”
With a quick pivot, Mr. Corden slams out of the kitchen, leaving the room in quiet disbelief. No one dares to speak, though, struck speechless as Harry gets to his feet, Niall helping Liam. The older boys gently push the younger ones toward the door, corralling them up the service steps in the back. It’s still early, the sun not even half set, so Harry presses a few loaves of bread into their hands, spares a few apples. It’ll be a long, cold night to have an empty stomach.
- - -
The slow chimes of Big Ben have just signaled the midnight hour when Harry reaches up and unlatches the window. The cold breeze comes wafting into the attic room, would have billowed the curtains had there been any. Above the vast buildings and quiet happenings of London, stars twinkle just out of reach. The moon is full tonight, a large circle beaming brightly onto the cobblestones below.
Harry's let his curls down tonight, let them sway in the breeze, caught up against his cheek and then down onto his shoulder again. His nightshirt is thin, bone pale with the laces untied so the chill cuts through him. It feels like something distant, insignificant, in comparison to the acidity bubbling in his stomach. The road sways below him, muddled by the tears in his eyes, the sharp cut of the window ledge on the bottoms of his feet. He's six stories above the earth but to him, it feels like the whole world is just floating below him and he is lost like a small cloud in a jet stream.
He turned eighteen only a month ago. Boyhood still rounding out his jaw, his cherub face all painted with big eyes and a puckered, full mouth. It feels so strange to him that one moment he was allowed to run and play with the other boys, and yet in the change of the season, he's suddenly supposed to be a man. And not just any sort, either. Mr. Corden wants to send him to the mines - to work and labor and waste away for someone else's gain. The mere thought has led Harry here, standing in the yawning mouth of the window, staring up at the stars, waiting for the moment to join them.
"You won't die."
A voice to the side speaks up, matter-of-fact. Louis is lounging across a small section of the roof, shingles digging into his back as he fiddles with a glowing light in his hand. It seems to be pulsating, spinning around his fingers before settling in his lap. When it seems content, he glances up at Harry, blue eyes gleaming in the green light.
"Oli jumped out of a tree once about this size. Idiot, really." Pushing himself up, Louis shakes his head. "Didn't die. Did get a nasty break in the arm. One of the fairies had to patch him up. Still has the scar."
"I don't think there are trees this tall anywhere." Harry rolls his eyes, turning his head back to look out on the street below. A carriage is coming up the stones, the soft clop of the horse's hooves echoing lowly.
"Have you seen every tree there ever was?" Setting the light up on his shoulder, Louis leans up on his hands. From the angle he's sitting, it doesn't make any sense he hasn't fallen off yet. "Do you know how trees grow–"
"Please go away." Butterflies beat wildly inside of Harry's ribcage, choking up the words but he manages to get them out. "You're not real."
"I'm about as real as the fact that you're not going to jump." Louis shrugs, the corner of his mouth rising in a small grin.
"You don't know that." Harry's soft foot stomps onto the ledge of the window sill, his heel rocking. "Don't presume to know what I will and won't do."
"You'd have done it already." Louis raises his eyebrows, not in a challenge to be proven wrong but in knowing he's right. The light on his shoulder pulses. "But that's not what you came out here for. You were waiting for me."
Harry doesn't say anything for a moment, isn't sure he even knows what to say. His fingers have gone half numb from holding onto the cold metal edge, thighs shivering under his nightgown. There is a chill to the air, like it will snow, the bitterness of a false spring. When he had seen Louis last night, it had felt like a dream, like something his mind conjured to escape the bleak reality of the evening. But now, there is no denying he’s real – even down to the faint scatter of freckles on his arms, over his bare feet.
Harry is staring, that’s why he sees it when Louis suddenly raises off of the siding. Not to stand. Not to sit higher. No, he floats off the shingles entirely, and comes to hover right before the window. It's without reason. It's impossible. But there he is, flying in free space, close enough Harry can smell the spearmint on his breath, see the soft curve of his jaw when he grins wide.
"I told you, I'd be back. Are you ready to come with me now?”
“You can–“ Mouth falling open in disbelief, Harry rocks forward, heels on the creaking window sill. His soles have gone numb from standing on the old metal and with a sudden jolt, his foot slides forward. There isn’t enough time to catch himself, though Harry has never been graceful enough to save himself from a fall, clumsy with his long legs.
For one terrifying moment Harry’s eyes focus in on the street below. The horse and cart have made it nearly to the orphanage, the stones looking wet from the rain earlier, hurtling up toward him with a burst of cold air. For as much as the end had seemed like an option only a few moments ago, terror lodges thick in Harry’s throat, chokes him at the prospect of what it will feel like to slam into the cobblestones below. Then, strong arms are wrapped around his waist, catching him in mid-descent and guiding Harry up – moving in the opposite direction as before. He’s held tight against Louis’ chest, tucked with his face in his neck until they make it back through the window and onto the wooden floor of the attic.
Heart stuttering and slamming inside of his ribs, Harry takes deep, wretched gasps of air. All he can smell is the aroma lingering around Louis – salt and ocean – a deeper scent of fresh leaves and dirt. Harry wants to lean into it, let it ground him, close his eyes and cling to Louis a little longer – but the other boy steps back, hands on his hips and a pinched expression.
“I can fly, yes.” He rolls his eyes, haughty and annoyed, before leveling Harry with a narrowed glance. “But you can’t!”
“I didn’t mean to. It was an accident,” Harry stammers, words all caught up in his mouth. His chest is still heaving, terror turning him cold, but he can’t help tagging on. “How can you fly?”
“Same as anyone. I just think nice thoughts,” Louis states matter-of-fact. Like it’s obvious. He’s still staring at Harry and seems to not believe that Harry is okay. “And they lift you into the air.”
“Oh.” Harry glances down to where Louis’ feet are just barely hovering over the scuffed and faded wood floor, his heels smeared with dark mud. “And sad thoughts?”
“They bring you down.” Louis’ heels thud loudly when he drops.
“I guess that’s why I can never fly.” Harry doesn’t mean to say it, just slips from between his teeth. They’re being loud, the both of them, but neither Niall nor Liam so much as move within their beds.
“Well, I’ve had practice. Of course.” He doesn’t say it meanly, just like Louis is reassuring Harry that it’s alright. “For you, we might need Zayn’s help.”
“Zayn?” Harry asks, brow furrowing. He hadn’t seen another boy with Louis.
“My fairy, of course.”
Shrugging his shoulders, Louis looks around until he spots the glimmering light in the corner. It’s a little too bright, a little too pulsating to be a candle or flame, gleaming white against the dusty beams. With a click of his tongue, Louis unfurls his hand, palm raised and the light moves slowly over to him, circles his fingers before settling neatly in Louis’ grip.
“Z, say hello.”
Slowly, the glow begins to dim, just enough to be able to see into and when Harry does, he gasps loudly. There, standing with a ring of white light around him, is a small man. Or more – not a man, but a someone. Someone so beautiful it feels almost unreal. He’s wearing a short dress that looks to be made out of tiny leaves, adorned with a vine belt, a crown of flowers woven into his hair. He stares up at Harry with large, dark eyes, rubbing a hand casually over the stubble on his well-defined jaw. It’s not the fact that he’s a tiny version of a human, though, that has Harry’s mouth hanging open – it’s the wings. Nearly translucent, no bigger than that of a butterfly, shimmering black and then blue and then orange, like an oil spill left on dark stones.
“Oh! He’s so lovely,” Harry coos, raising a finger as if he means to touch, only to pause when Zayn lets out a series of sharp sounds, ringing like a tiny bell. “I’m sorry. Are you a he?”
“He’s a he.” Louis nods once, lifting his hand closer to Harry’s face so he can see Zayn. He doesn’t look that impressed, nose wrinkled as he glances from Louis and then back. “Z, this is Harry. He’s going to come home and tell us stories.”
And just like that, the reality settles heavily into Harry’s stomach – a lead weight to pull him down, a bad thought. Because it seems so easy even when it really isn’t. Harry pulls himself back, crosses his arms over his chest. The night air has seeped into the small attic room, turning everything chilly and bitter, false spring returned to winter. It’s a good setting for the type of mood that descends on Harry, pulled up like a hood to cover himself in dim despair.
Louis doesn’t seem to notice until Harry’s knees hit the bed, wobbling a little to keep his balance before forgoing it completely and sitting down. Huffing under his breath, Louis immediately puts Zayn back up on his shoulder, hands settled in front of him and palms rubbing together in slow circles as he steps forward a little.
“What? Why do you look like that?”
“I can’t leave with you. I told you.”
Glancing around the room, Harry looks at Liam – brow furrowed, cheek bruised and split from the blow earlier. He’s worrying his way through his dreams, already anxious for a day that hasn’t started yet. Then Niall, who sleeps with his shoes lined up and laces out, in case he needs to make a run for it in the middle of the night. Harry had promised to never tell anyone that there’s a knife under his mattress, too – one of the big ones from the kitchen – because where Niall came from taught him to always be prepared.
The decision from before, the chance to free himself, had seemed less cruel than just abandoning them in the middle of the night. At least if he was splattered upon the pavement, they would know he hadn’t just run away and not tried to save them, too. It would be better, wouldn’t it? Rather than Niall and Liam waking up to an empty room and no note to explain.
“Them?” Louis points a finger, at first to Niall and then Liam. “Is that why?”
“I can’t leave them. We are as close to family as boys like us get.” Harry reaches a hand over, adjusting the blanket on Liam’s shoulder, covering him up further. Outside, a few flakes of snow have begun to fall. It’s so cold in the attic, Harry can see his breath. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh. Well.” Lifting off the floor, Louis hovers above Niall, twists his head this way and that, like he’s studying a strange bug he found in the grass rather than an actual human. He looks surprisingly young – confused but curious. “Let’s take them with us.”
“What?” Harry startles, the faint heat of something blooming in his chest. It’s a dangerous feeling for someone like Harry to have but it feels as close to hope as he’s ever let himself get.
“I can use a few more lost boys. Games are better when more play.” Louis sets himself back on the ground, Zayn hovering above him like a personal firefly. “Now, will you come?”
“You mean it?” Harry gasps, hands curling before him, half raised off the mattress. “Really, Louis? Really?”
“I don’t see why not.” Louis shrugs like it’s nothing, like it isn’t everything Harry has ever hoped for. He seems passive about it, impatient to get things moving. “Come on, then. It’ll be dawn soon.”
“Louis!”
Elation – sweet and syrupy – descends over Harry, catches up in his throat as he cries Louis’ name, rushing to him when Louis just gives a shrug and a nod. He isn’t sure this is technically proper, Mr. Corden would surely yell at him for throwing himself into another boy’s arms, but Louis doesn’t falter under it. In fact, he catches Harry with a knowing sense of ease, like his arms naturally are meant to go around his waist, hands warm on his back.
“I could just give you a kiss. Thank you. Thank you!” Harry pulls back, blinking hard to keep the tears that threaten, hot and heavy, from falling. Louis seems entirely confused by it, brows furrowed as he pushes a hand between them, palm up.
“Okay.”
He sweeps his blue gaze from his hand up to Harry’s face and then back, shifting on his feet impatiently. And Harry – he hadn’t thought of that. That maybe things are different for a boy that can create a magical land in his mind. That maybe he doesn’t have a need for simple things like kisses or great showings of affection. Reaching into his pocket, Harry tugs a piece of ribbon out, the one he usually uses to tame his curls back. Carefully, he coils it in the center of Louis’ slightly dirty palm.
“Oh. Um.” Glancing up to Zayn’s glow, Louis plucks the ribbon up between two of his fingers. “It’s nice. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Harry nods once, feeling the heat in his face, spurred on by the dark sweep of Louis’ eyelashes over his cheeks as he fiddles with the slightly fraying end of the green satin. “And now one for me?”
“Right.”
Unswayed by the request, Louis pats himself down, over his bare chest, along the top of his pants, held in place by a thick belt of vines and leather. He isn’t really carrying anything, no pockets on his thin trousers, but with a stroke of ingenuity, Louis reaches up to his hair and plucks a small pearl that had rested just behind his ear. It’s attached to a small chain, wrapped around a comb, but Louis’ thin fingers work to untangle them, holding out the necklace to Harry with a triumphant ‘ha!’.
“Thank you.” Harry can barely contain his gasp, reaching a hand up to guide his curls away from his neck, gesturing for Louis to slip it over his head. The chain is long, a delicately fine twirl of silver, so it puts the pearl low on Harry’s chest, half-hidden by the open laces of his nightshirt, resting near his heart. When Harry turns back, Louis’ face is a little red and he’s blatantly huffing, glancing toward the open window like he’s already bored of this game.
“Come on, then. Get the lads.”
With a quick grin and a giggle to match, Harry dashes to Liam’s side first – knows better than to scare Niall awake. He grabs the older boy by his shoulders, shaking him roughly with a desperate cry.
“Liam! Wake up! There is a boy here who will teach us to fly.”
“Wha?” Liam’s eyes barely crack open, head lifting off the pillow before crashing back down. “Hazza, go back to sleep. It’s early.”
“No! Liam, wake up. Please.” Harry tugs on him again, pulling down the blankets he had just pulled up a while ago. “You need to see him.”
“Go away,” Liam grumbles, eyes squinting harshly shut again. Abandoning him for now, Harry turns to his other roommate.
“Nialler! Niall, wake up!” Harry doesn’t touch Niall, just lingers toward the top of his head, out of swinging range. “A boy is here! He’s going to take us away to somewhere wonderful.”
Niall’s eyes pop open, already half out of the bed, when his gaze settles on Louis. He takes one long look at him – roving from his bare chest, his proud stance, the gleam of light circling lazily over his head – and Niall shoves to his feet with a cry of disbelief. He turns from Harry to Louis a few times before his mouth falls open in shock.
“You’re–“ He cries, voice so loud that it forces Liam to push himself up, too. He looks increasingly less excited compared to Niall, setting his hands on his hips with a scowl.
“If you’re some beggar, I’ll have you know this is a respectable orphanage–” Liam’s voice cuts out the moment Louis begins to rise off the floor.
He just hovers there, suspended in the air with a haughty little grin, so amused at himself and the way the three other boys stare at him. Harry can’t stop – captivated by the playing of lights over Louis’ form, the cocky tilt to his head, his fists pressed into his hips. He looks just like his picture in the books, proud and strong and magical. Louis is like someone looked into Harry’s deepest fantasy and brought the pages of his perfect story into life. And maybe they did.
“Come on, lads, line up.” Louis nudges his face down toward the floor before him. “Haven’t got all night.”
They go without question, without consideration, as Liam and Niall scramble together, standing shoulder to shoulder. Louis stares down his nose at them, sizes them up, before he snaps his fingers. Zayn flies to him instantly, spins around his hands, his fingers, sprinkling light flecks onto Louis’ outstretched hand. He sends him then to the boys, Zayn scattering the glitter over their heads, their shoulders, their arms.
“But how–“ Niall asks, lifting his hands in awe.
“Think happy thoughts. Any thought will do.” Louis shrugs, though his grin is delighted. “They lift you up.”
“Happy thoughts?” Liam scoffs a little, though he closes his eyes, muttering under his breath. “Warm fires. Music with horns. Dancing with someone. Christmas trees and cider.”
“Street fairs! Roasted potatoes and bangers on Sundays. A real bed full of feathers!” Niall cries, hands clasped by his sides. “Warm socks on a snowy day!”
They’re both too focused on thinking of something pleasant that they don’t even realize they’re floating until they bump into each other. Niall and Liam are close to the ceiling rafters, swaying around, and with a shout, they back peddle away from each other. It’s more floating around, hovering, than flying. Niall pushes his heels into the ceiling and flips away with a grace that feels more natural. Their laughter is infectious, riotous really, swaying around, being followed by Zayn who seems to swell with the light and the sounds of chiming bells.
Harry watches with a wide-eyed, shocked grin. He’s never seen his friends this happy, this loud and joyful. It’s enough to lift Harry himself, maybe not from the floor, but the weight off his shoulders. He feels his spine unfurling, the darkness that had crept into him only a while ago dimming to a faint gleam. Instead, heat swells in his chest, a warmth erupting into an inferno when Louis suddenly swims before him, perched just a little off the floor so he can look directly into Harry’s eyes.
Carefully, he uncurls his fist just below his chin, blowing a soft breath, and the glimmering light spreads from his fingers over Harry’s face. He can smell honeysuckle, warm sunshine, a salty breeze. Can almost see the whole world rotating in Louis’ bright blue eyes. He’s never felt the flutter of butterflies so hard in his stomach, can almost hear the way his heart is beating.
“Harry,” Louis whispers the name, still grinning as he glances down, directs Harry’s attention to where the both of them are now in the air, the bed and the wood floor lingering below them.
“Oh,” Harry gasps, feels the cool breeze from the window brush over his bare feet, up the long hem of his nightshirt. It flutters up his legs, above his knee, and Louis makes a sharp noise in the back of his throat before he’s suddenly backing away.
“Alright lads!” He claps his hands roughly, a sharp crack of his palms as Louis flies toward the open window. “Out! We’ve got places to be!”
Liam and Niall, enthralled and trusting, make one quick sweep to grab up shoes and a few things – the kitchen knife, a dusty old top hat, a small postcard with the streets of London covered in snow and Christmas lights. Then, they’re out into the cold night, hovering above the streets and the horse cart that is far away now. The snow swirls around them, reflecting bright still under the full moon. Zayn follows them out, Louis lingering just inside of the window sill, hands on the metal, staring at Harry.
But Harry can’t just slip into the night without looking back, without hesitating. As much as he wants to leave, there are too many questions, too many doubts. The little room in the attic of the orphanage is all Harry has known – a little sad, a little despondent – but it’s all Harry can remember. He doesn’t know who he was before being left on the steps with nothing but a blanket. But he knows what he’ll become – who he’ll become – if he stays here. He’ll be a miner, covered in soot and sent into the darkness, left to work and be forgotten. Like a shadow lingering just out of the reach of the sun.
Heart throbbing in his chest, sore and festering, Harry reaches up to press his palm into it only for his fingers to tangle with the chain now resting against his neck. He can feel Louis’ eyes on him, can feel the surge of magic thrumming around him, but his thoughts have brought him down until his heels are firmly on the ground. And for one terrible moment, Harry is sure he’ll never rise up again.
“Forget them, Harry. Forget them all.” Louis’ lips brush against his ear, his breath warm down Harry’s neck. He’s hovering just over his shoulder, nose tucked into Harry’s curls. “Come away. Where the sun never sets unless I want it to. Where you never have to worry about sad or lonely or grown-up things ever again. No one will touch you. It can just be us. You and me and the sea. Forever. For always.”
Dizzy with the thought of it, Harry’s head comes back, rests against Louis’ shoulder, and turns his face toward the other boy. Of course Louis is magical, looks like he was formed by the hands of fantasy themselves. And Harry can feel his resolve melting away with Louis’ warm hand on his waist, the other coming up to tangle in Harry’s own. They’re wrapped around one another now, tied up like two coiled ropes, and Harry can’t remember any of the reasons why he shouldn’t. Why he can’t.
He doesn’t even need to say anything. Doesn’t think he can. Just lets Louis rock them back on his heels, guiding them out into the night without a backward glance at the open window.
London swirls around them, tall buildings growing smaller as they all aim toward the moon. She’s beautiful – cut into the dark sky like a beacon as Louis drags them forward, his hand in Harry’s, Harry’s in Niall’s, and then Liam at the end, hurtling sharply into the night sky just to the right. The star grows brighter, brighter still, a kaleidoscope of neon colors shifting and merging into streaks of light. Everything is too much and too intense and feels like falling into the sky until it gives way with a shutter of bright, blinding light.
And then, there is the sound of seagulls.
The island stretches out in the never-ending vastness of a blue, blue sea. Tall trees cluster toward the middle, a jungle dense with wildlife and flora. It’s hard to make out any details this far above it but there are some things to be noted. The lagoon on the far east of the island is surrounded by tall rocks promising grottos and sea caves. To the west is a large meadow in the center of the island, something gleaming in the wildflowers there. Rain clouds linger to the south where a large ship lays anchored in the harbor, a black flag whipping around in the wind.
“It’s magnificent!” Liam’s voice gets swallowed up a bit by the wind as they start to plummet down toward the island. They’ve let go of hands, just one long line across the sky. “How did you make it?”
“Magic!” Louis laughs, carefree under the sun that he flips over onto his back, casually falls into the open air like he knows he can’t crash here. He’s a boy caught on the cusp of adulthood – looks almost like a man but with a gleam of mischief in his eye that keeps him from tipping over into it.
“I know but how–“ Liam starts to interject again only for something to go flying past his head.
“What–“ Niall shouts as another one – a large gray ball – comes barreling into the air just to the right of him. It would have hit Harry if Louis hadn’t reached out, hadn’t yanked him into his arms. The force sends them careening off, though, spiraling in the updraft as Liam and Niall get tossed the other way.
The momentum has Harry’s vision swimming, his balance off so he hangs limp in Louis’ arms, trying to get his bearings. There is nothing to settle on, though, in the bright sky, nothing to ground him, except for Louis’ heaving chest against his face, arms tight around his shoulders. They nearly lose balance if not for Louis shoving his feet down, righting them as much as he can. In the distance, it seems that something is helping keep Liam and Niall together, a light gone unnaturally bright around them.
“Fucking pirates,” Louis hisses, bodily lifting Harry until he’s more supported, arm looped around his waist. “Always ruining it.”
“Are they firing at us?” Harry gasps, watches another cannonball fly into the air between the two groups. Smoke rises from the side of the pirate ship.
“Yes. Well, me.” Louis shifts his grip a little, fingers tight enough to bruise on Harry’s ribs. “I’ll handle it. You go back to the Tree House with Zayn.”
“No! I can’t just leave you.” Immediately, Harry turns his attention back, stares at Louis. There is a dangerous glint in his eyes, something churning there, a dragon swimming in the deep blues of his irises. Harry knows what rising to a challenge looks like, can nearly taste the ego in the air around them.
“It wasn’t a request.” Louis grits his teeth, another cannonball slamming into the clouds just above them. It sends the air whooshing around them, but Louis doesn’t move, holding them steady.
Harry furrows his brow, tries to grab onto Louis but he’s stronger, quicker, as he sets his hand in the center of Harry’s chest, fingertips on his collarbone. Louis shoves, sharp and up and Harry has no choice, too new to flying to hold his own. He soars across the open air, arms pinwheeling at his sides with a loud shout, only to slam into Liam and Niall. They don’t move the way Harry does, though, held still by the fairy light around them.
“Oi oi!” Louis practically crows, loud and rippling between the clouds. “You fucking coward!”
He flips with his head pointed toward the open sea, soaring down at a speed that blurs him, a smear of a magical boy with his arms back. He’s powerful, riotous in his laughter, in his easy way of moving around the land he’s created. Harry can’t even make him out above the ship, too high, but hears the loud crackle of something and then the flash of light below them.
“Oh!” Liam’s voice breaks in Harry’s ear as suddenly they’re being herded to the left, away from the clear shot of the battle, and then down.
“Wait! Wait, I want to help!” Harry tries to fight against the magic binding him against his friends but Zayn gives a high-pitched screech, much like the sound of metal on glass, and Harry can do nothing but give in to it.
Trees reach out their limbs to swallow them whole, sunlight gobbled up as the three of them plummet faster and faster to the earth. Zayn is screeching with a cacophony of bells, chimes, a whole percussion section as the leaves surround them, smells like dirt and ozone. Until suddenly, they fall into an unexpectedly soft landing. Green, green grass and wildflowers surround them, a small plume of pollen floating up in a yellow, hazy cloud.
Harry stares up first at the hole in the leaves, the bright blue sky, the fluffy clouds. It’s all he can see until suddenly a face is looming over him. It’s not necessarily an unpleasant face, pale skin with freckles over his nose, a crop of red hair glinting copper in the sun. His ears stick out a little, more pronounced when he tilts his head, eyes narrowing as something bright comes to linger on his shoulder.
“He doesn’t look dangerous,” a voice murmurs to the side, but before Harry can turn toward it, the ginger is raising his hand and sprinkling what looks like petals all over Harry’s face.
“Doesn’t matter what he looks like. Lou said put him down. We put him down,” he snips, voice a little rough in his accent, all vowels. Harry doesn’t have a chance to protest, doesn’t even get to reach for Niall or Liam, before his eyes flutter closed.
- - -
Louis is revved up when he lands just to the south of the Tree House, making his way carefully up the unmarked path. Although he knows every creature, plant, and animal in his forest, he also knows that some of them would love to know where he spends his nights, so he’s careful when he goes back. Even someone you craft into a friend, who you spend energy and part of yourself on, can eventually turn into the thing you should fear.
He knows that all too well. There is a cut above his eyebrow that he’s going to have to have Zayn patch up, a twinge in his spine from hitting the post in the center of the pirate ship. He doesn’t want to think about that now, though, about the fight, about the battle of Louis’ own ego versus the man who he used to call a friend. No, he has the boys to take care of, the new ones and the others. And a story he wants to get finished.
Except, when Louis flies through the secret opening toward the base of the tree, half-hidden behind a boulder that only opens if you sing the right note, he immediately knows something is wrong. For one, the house is nearly silent, only the fairy lights illuminating the main room, the nooks and crannies of hammocks and bedrooms left dark. There is no laughter, no music, no shouting, no games. No one is wrestling in the center of the floor, no sound of breaking toys and other odd bits.
For another, all the lost boys are crowded around in a circle, backs toward the door and they jump when Louis clears his throat. It’s a roundtable of guilty smiles, downcast eyes, hands clasped behind their backs. It would almost seem funny, a silly little game, except for the two other lads bound in the corner. Louis doesn’t remember their names. They came with Harry, though, and they look imploringly at Louis behind their makeshift gags.
“And what have we here?” Louis raises a brow, steps further into the room. “A bit of catch and release then, lads?”
“Yeah, yeah. For sure,” Luke pipes up, runs a hand over the back of his head, leaves and hair sticking up in all directions. “A bit of a game, really. A new one.”
“For bants! Welcome the new mates in, ‘course,” Calvin adds in, eager and loud. Little lying chav.
“Just a bit of fun.” Stan wraps his arm over Calvin’s shoulders, pulls Nizam over to him as well. It’s doing a good job of blocking whatever is going on behind them, crowding together in a half-circle. “Right lads? Just waiting for you to get back.”
“Yeah, yeah!” Nizam instantly encourages, nodding his head just as hard as Calvin. “Couldn’t do it proper without you, Louis.”
“Game’s no fun until you get back!” Jamie, on the far end, pipes up just as one of the gagged boys starts shouting behind his ties. He’s the bigger of the two, built a bit in the shoulders, and he strains against the vines at his wrists. Beside him, the blond is frantically trying to say something too, his blue eyes swinging from Louis to whatever is behind the other boys, trying to draw attention to it.
“No fun til I get back, eh?” Louis steps forward, hands clasped behind his back, makes it casual. The whole lot is here, every one of them, except the one Louis specifically went to get. “And where is my storyteller then?”
“Story…teller?” Stan says the word slowly, as if he’s never heard it before. Beside him, Calvin starts wiggling, shifting on his feet and leaning closer toward Luke. He’s not dumb enough to try and sneak a whisper in, though, not in front of Louis.
“What’s a storyteller?” Jamie asks, glancing around at the other boys, coy as can be and ridiculously bad at it. “You ever heard of a storyteller, Luke?”
“Story. Teller. Uh.” Luke’s mouth arches up, corners turned down as he contemplates. “Nope. Can’t say I have.”
“Are you sure you brought one? What does it look like?” Nizam nudges his elbow into Stan’s side, both of them shifting around on their bare feet. Whatever is behind them must be worth hiding. “What color is it?”
“I heard it was purple,” Calvin interjects, finger tapping at his chin. “Or maybe blue? Green. It was definitely green.”
“When you think about it, what even is a story?” Stan laughs loudly, head thrown back, high pitched and booming in the otherwise silent room. “Just a collection of thoughts, right? How did you lose–“
“Zayn told us you wanted us to put him down!”
Oli. It’s always Oli – loyal to the very end. Can’t lie to Louis to save his own life. Front and center, he immediately falls away to the side, exposing the scene behind him. There is a blanket of soft fur laid out on the dirt floor, downy gray and white striped, and in the center – laid very carefully – is Harry. He’s a little mused, curls sprawled around his face, petals and pollen caught on his cheek, his nightshirt rucked up his legs to expose a milky thigh. Louis can tell he’s still breathing, even if it’s very slow, but it does little to quell the sudden rush of panic.
"What did you do?" Louis shoves the other boys out of the way, coming up short on his knees beside him. Harry doesn't look hurt exactly, a bit jostled, sure, but it doesn't stop Louis from reaching out, touching his shoulder. "Oli! What did you do?"
"Zayn said–" Oli tries again, face aflame, but he's cut off by Louis' growl.
"Don't make me ask again."
"Just a bit of poppy dust, is all," Stan is quick to answer, stepping forward and throwing his arm around Oli. "Just a bit to knock him out until you got here and said what to do with him."
"Do with him?" Louis looks up, startled, just as the other two boys – Louis isn't even sure Harry told him their names – start shouting again in earnest.
"Zayn said you wanted us to put him down," Oli repeats, he's so distraught he's practically in tears. "He said you said so!"
"Put him down. Like on the ground, you idiots." Louis rolls his eyes so hard he feels dizzy with it. "Not put him to sleep!"
"Oh."
The group at large gives a collective groan of acknowledgment. Louis isn't one to ever put down his lads – his mates, his boys – but sometimes it feels as if he's surrounded by one single brain bouncing between them. It's a good thing he's their leader; if not, chaos would ensue every moment of the day.
"Zayn!" Louis snaps his fingers, holding out his palm.
The fairy himself doesn't come but a small bottle does appear in Louis' hand, bright gold liquid inside. Louis has to use his teeth to uncork it, smells the citrus in the air before he's reaching for Harry's face. It takes him a moment to get the other boy's lips open, parting his mouth just enough to pour the entire elixir inside.
He doesn't know why, doesn't even know how to explain the feeling, but something about brushing his thumb over Harry's lips feels important. Like he shouldn't be doing it in front of the other boys. Like he shouldn’t be doing it at all, not in the blasé way he’s used to. Louis has been in Neverland for so long it feels like nothing is real outside of it, but this feels very familiar. Like something he once knew how to do, or at least knew about, before he came here. Before his mind was filled with magic.
With a sharp gasp, Harry's eyes fly open and he sits up, jolted by the rush of liquid sunshine now coursing through him. It gives him a golden sort of glow around his face, eyes gone wide as he looks around, first at Louis and then over to where the other two boys are. When he sees them, he gives a little cry, but Louis is quick to grip his shoulder, keeping him down.
"S'alright. Easy, mate. Don't rush up or your head will go all fuzzy." Turning his shoulder, Louis cuts his eyes from Stan and Luke to the others, hissing. "Let 'em go."
"What's going on? You said we'd be safe if we came with you." Harry's voice is rough, cracking a little as his tone has gone deep, a tell-tale wetness to his eyes. "Louis, you promised."
"Just a game gone wrong, love. No worries." Louis resists the urge to pet his hand over the errant curls half spilled into Harry’s face. They’re so long they linger at the top of his shoulders, a few petals caught in the end. “Boys being boys. Not listening. We’re all alright.”
“I don’t–“ Harry pauses, cheeks gone pink as Louis finally leans in and pushes a stray hair from his cheek. He’s pretty like this, Louis thinks, all mused and staring at Louis with his big, trusting eyes. “I’m just–“
“Hush now. It’s okay. Lads are tip-top, right?” Pulling his hand back, Louis flashes Harry his best smile, tries to be reassuring. "Look, right as rain."
The other two boys, now free from their bindings, rush over to crowd around Harry as soon as they can. Louis doesn't necessarily enjoy the fact that they basically shove him away, but he gets it. Loyalty is hard to break, even harder to earn. And it seems that no matter what Louis' intentions were, they didn't come across very well on the delivery once they reached Neverland. Something he will address later but first, he needs to set things right.
"Are you alright, Haz? They didn't hurt you, did they?" Muscles – as Louis has so named him now – sends a scathing glare over at the other boys before going back to petting Harry's curls. “We should go home right now.”
"You try anything again and I'll gut you!" The blond, just as fierce, points his finger into Oli's chest, tapping harshly before turning his snarl at Louis. "I swear, I will. Cut you from ear to ear. Make that smug grin permanent."
“I’d like to see you try!” Stan, red-faced and teeth clenched, is quick to shove between them. “Nobody threatens Louis and gets away with it.”
“Yeah!” Calvin, barely held back by Luke’s tight grip on his arm, reaches into his belt and yanks out the bone-sharpened dagger. It was a gift from saving one of the mermaids from an errant net. “You fuck with him, you fuck with us.”
“Well, you fuck with H, you fuck with us.” Muscles pokes his head up, gets to his feet, both of them towering over Harry now. “You really want to do this?”
“Yeah, maybe we fucking do!” Calvin pulls his arm out of Luke’s hold, taking a swing that is way too wide to do any damage. “Let’s go, you little bitch.”
And Louis – he won't stand for that. Won't have them all at odds with each other. Louis runs his crew like a family. You learn to love the worst and the best of one another, but you never abandon them, never hurt them. Besides, the negativity is clouding up the space around them, the lights and the magic dimming from the anger. Louis can't have that either.
"Boys, boys. Now, none of that." Louis gets to his feet, shaking out his ankles before pushing a hand between the groups, separating them. “Manners, manners.”
“They fucking–” Stan tries to interrupt, pointing a finger toward where Muscles and Blondie are crowded together, eyes narrowed. Louis is quick to send him a look, though, one eyebrow raised.
“I don’t care who started it. I’m ending it.” Huffing out a quick breath, Louis turns, reaching a hand down to Harry. "Now, let's not fight in front of our newest guest. Best impressions, yes? For my storyteller."
"Oh." Harry's cheeks go a nice shade of pink as he takes Louis' hand, gets to his feet. He reminds Louis of something lovely. Something like a newly bloomed flower, all soft and curved. "Yes. I’m sure it was all a misunderstanding. Let’s not fight. I’m really okay.”
He doesn’t seem that sure but he smiles at Louis all the same, hand warm where it still rests in Louis’. If this is a game, Louis isn’t sure how to play this one. It feels like he should, like before, that this is something he should remember or at least know what’s happening, but it’s gone before he can. Harry looks like he wants to say something, maybe something soft and private to only Louis, but he swallows it down. Louis watches carefully as his face changes, focusing instead on the group, curling his free hand into the hem of his dress.
“Anyway, hello. Nice to meet you. I'm Harry."
"Harry, these are the Lost Boys." Louis doesn't let go of his hand, uses his other to point. "That giant is Luke, then Calvin, Nizam, Stan, Jamie, and finally Oli. You've met Zayn, as well, wherever he's gone off to."
"Hiya Harry." Calvin steps forward spinning his hand before him before dropping to his knee in a slightly off-balance bow. "Pleasure to have you."
"Yes, absolute pleasure," Luke follows, an odd little smirk on his face as his eyes sweep over Harry, taking him in. Louis isn’t sure he likes that look, feels something off about the way Luke’s grin goes a little shark-like, teeth glinting. Harry doesn’t seem to notice, his fingers flexing in Louis’, but he does give a little giggle when Luke takes his free hand and bounces it in a quick shake.
The other lads give their greetings, all fairly excited and respectful, bowing or pulling their caps off the top of their heads. Louis half thinks of scolding them. It’s not like they’re meeting the queen, but maybe, maybe Harry deserves a warm welcome. Something more pronounced than the casual way boys usually fit into the crew. He’s important after all. After every greeting, they turn and immediately look to Louis for approval, needing to make sure he's satisfied. Nothing ruins a game quite like an angry Louis.
"You're all so kind. This is Liam and this is Niall." Harry says when they're done, first pointing to Muscles and then Blondie. Louis is barely paying attention, the game boring, but he at least tries to keep names straight.
"Cheers,” Liam nods once, Niall half a step behind him with a tight-lipped smile.
It’s an awkward pause – a prolonged moment where no one seems to want to talk or move. Louis can only handle so much tension, too much boring chit-chat. He wants to play. To run and yell and start some mischief with the fairies or the sprites or something. Anything to get away from whatever grown-up-infused bullshit the lot of them seem to fall into. All of them keep skirting glances toward him, too, so Louis has no choice but to finish this game and start a new one.
“Alright, lads. This is a bore. Shall we go for a rumpus?”
Dusting his hands together, Louis immediately kicks up off the ground, making a quick flip in the air. It delights the lads around him, all of them shouting and gathering up on their feet. They’re never hesitant about running through the forest, causing a stir. Liam and Niall share a careful look before cautiously following in the cacophony of noise as the lads quickly make their way to the hidden doorway out of the tree. Only Harry lingers, a wide grin on his face, dimples denting his cheeks. He waits until Louis gives him a small nod, a tilt of his head almost like permission, before Harry chases after the boys, Louis on his heels.
- - -
Moonlight streams across the forest floor, glints pale white and gray along the dark awning of the tree branches. It feels like only a moment ago, the sun was shining and the birds were still loudly singing to one another. And then, in the blink of an eye, a change in a mood – it’s suddenly dark out and the crickets are the only noise singing in the stillness of the woods. It would be pressing, heavy, if not for the giggled breaths and stomping feet making their way through the underbrush and up to the large oak tree.
The group is chaotic even in their subdued tones, their tired whispering, their nudging of one another. Mud cakes the bottoms of their feet, their ankles, some even up to their knees. Leaves and twigs and flowers lay caught up in unruly hair, a makeshift flag built from strapped fabric and a large branch sits poised on a shoulder, even the trail of lightning bugs following them seem to dance and twist in time with their steps.
Finally, they reach their destination and, one by one, the boys disappear into the hidden opening in the ground. It's a rough-cut hole behind a boulder that seems to roll away only when it's told to with a series of quick knocks and snaps of fingers. The very last one in is Louis, who pushes a hand into Harry's back, guides him forward, before forcing the stone to roll closed over the doorway.
Inside, the hollowed-out trunk of the Tree House stretches tall and wide. Along the walls, little dugouts and ledges have been built, half-covered in curtains and odd bits of fabric, crude decorations clearly made by rugged hands. The boys all disperse the minute they get inside, finding handholds and spaces to set their feet, climbing and scrambling until they disappear into their rooms, slipping behind curtains and under fur blankets. Even Niall and Liam, having shed their previous hostility, it seems, get shown where they can sleep – separate but in rooms near one another.
When they're settled, the fairy lights and magic glow turn warm but dim along the wooden walls, and Louis turns a careful eye toward Harry. He's just standing there in his thin nightshirt, hair swept back, cheeks red with exertion. They all had chased each other through the woods, feet pounding into the dirt, shouting and laughing, heads thrown back as they howled at each other. A game of tag had started, no real reason or rule behind it, and the boys had chased one another through the viney underbrush, up until they had spilled out toward Flora Field, a meadow of wildflowers always in bloom.
After that, they had made their way the long way back, tired and sweaty, but elated at being free to play. No one stopped them from running around, jumping and twisting in the sun. No one to keep them in line, no one to tell them to watch the dirt, to keep themselves calm and quiet. Louis hadn't even remembered to have the sun sink below the horizon until he heard some of the boys start yawning.
"Is there somewhere, um, you'd like me? I won't take up too much space, I promise." Harry whispers, gaze turned down toward the pile of furs in the corner, the now dark fireplace. As if he means to just curl up like a pup in front of the hearth. Louis would laugh if the idea didn't seem so heavy. He isn't blind to the way Harry had been treated in the Other World. He saw the state of that attic room, the cold air spilling in through the rafters, the shoddy window. Harry hasn’t been treated much better than a dog.
"No. Don't." Reaching out, Louis takes Harry's wrist in his hand, tugging on him, pulling him away from the corner. Couldn’t stand the thought of it. "You have a room."
"Oh. I don't need much. I promise." Harry tries to shake his head but Louis won't hear anymore.
“I didn’t take you far away from that place only to have you lay on the floor. Come on.”
There hasn't ever been anyone in Neverland that has ever been able to fight against Louis. Not really. It's his way, always. Either by coy grins or pouting or games played to his favor – Louis always gets his way. Why would anyone want to do anything else? When Louis is happy, the world is warm and bright, and when Louis is upset, frost lingers on the tips of the trees and wind rattles through the coast.
So, he doesn't consider any other option as he kicks up from the ground, fingers flexing in their hold on Harry. He basically drags him through the air, flies them both up and up and up, past bedrooms dark with sleeping Lost Boys, cutouts with baskets and toys and other items hidden away, through a maze of leaves and hanging fabric. Until finally, they slide past a curtain of silk and beads and land in a room seemingly cut from the very canopy itself.
This is usually the space where Louis comes to dream things into reality. It's his special room – off-limits to the other boys who wouldn't know how to delicately walk across the leaf and vine floor, how not to tug and tatter the soft palate of furs and silks and pillows piled up in the corner like a small nest. It makes sense then, that Louis would stash something special here, something that the other boys don't exactly understand. But figuring out the specifics of why Louis feels this way is a game better left for a different day.
"This is your room," Louis waves a hand toward the blankets, using his foot to push a few leaves flat.
Harry doesn’t say anything, mouth left open a little in awe as he spins in a slow circle. The patches of the canopy above him break open to reveal the night sky – a million stars scattered in the deep blue, the moonlight careful to peek through but not flood the space. Harry looks like he’s made out of Neverland itself – glowing a little, eyes wide, flowers still caught up in his hair.
“I come up here sometimes. To work on things,” Louis continues, doesn’t know what to name the emotion currently twisting in his chest. He feels warm – burning a bit – under Harry’s gaze. Like he’s too big for his skin. It makes the magic tingle in his fingertips, his spine turned liquid. “Dream a different horizon or orchard or something fun for the lads. Or a new type of animal or something of the lot.”
“It’s beautiful.” Harry reaches a hand up, fingers the pearl nestled in the center of his chest, just behind the ties of his nightshirt. It’s so long it hangs down to his knees now, a little dirty on the hem from chasing Niall in the field. Mr. Corden would have his head if he saw the state of him. “Did you make all of this then? The whole place?”
“Everything in Neverland is part of my dreams,” Louis answers, doesn’t shy away from the honesty of it even as Harry’s eyes widen a little. “A dream within a dream within a dream, I suppose.”
“You’re brilliant, Louis. So very clever.” Grinning wide, Harry tilts his head to the left, looking entirely amazed. It strokes Louis’ ego just enough to jolt him out of whatever melodramatic mood he’s slowly spiraling down into. He kicks off the floor again, floating up among the leaves and spinning to stare down at Harry with an eye roll and a shake of his head – fond but trying not to show it.
“Go to sleep, mate. It’s late and we have a lot more to do tomorrow.”
“More adventures then?” Harry asks, steps back onto the large bed, curling his legs under him. He hides a yawn in the back of his hand as he falls back into the pillows, curls scattered around him, tangled up still with petals. It reminds Louis of some forest sprite, laid out like that, pretty and pale in the moonlight.
“Always more adventures here. Games to be made up. Things to do.” Louis floats higher, lingers on the edge of one of the breaks in the leaves. “No rules. No limits.”
“Just you, me, and the sea,” Harry murmurs, a whisper on his lips as his eyes fall shut, and Louis waits to a count of thirty before he allows himself to float closer.
He hasn’t really gotten a chance to study his storyteller, not up close, not without the other boys clambering over one another for his attention. The whole rumpus had been a game of tag and shouting and wrestling. No one had tried to pull on Harry, but that didn’t stop them from shouting for him, running in front of him, tossing leaves and small twigs his way. Louis wants that, wants them all to function cohesively, to be a family. It had just felt… odd sometimes.
Particularly when Luke had cut Harry off in the clearing, skidding on the loose dirt to extend a flower before him like some knight trying to woo a maiden. It wasn’t even that particularly nice of a flower – petals damaged a bit, pollen half gone, but Harry had taken it all the same with a giggle and a nod of his head. And if Louis had flooded him with petals right after, distracting him, well he just – he had to. Something felt compulsive in the way Louis needed Harry’s attention, his eyes on him, his smiles, his laughter.
It doesn’t make any sense, though. Louis is always the center of attention when it comes to games here. He’s the leader, the one to be followed, and yet there is something different about Harry. Something Louis doesn’t know if he can really wrap his head around, remember why this feels important, why it’s significant.
Huffing out a sharp breath, Louis reaches down and pulls the slim blanket of lace and silk over Harry’s sleeping form before flipping back in the air and zipping through a break in the leaves. He’ll handle it some other time. Problems like that feel like something for grown-ups.
- - -
"You do what?" Liam eyes the plate before him. It's crudely fashioned from a piece of bark, more lopsided than a true circle, with a cup to match.
"You think of it." Calvin's words are muffled behind his mouthful of chicken. It's so much that his cheeks bulge from it. "And it's there."
"You think of it..." Liam looks down the table, eyes first where Niall seems to be tucked into his own plate – a mound of sausages and warm bread – and then down to where Harry has just taken his seat beside Louis. "How? How do you think of it?"
"S'not hard." Luke, perched beside Calvin so tightly their arms are brushing, hooks an elbow up on the table and leans in. He's got flecks of crumbs caught in his light stubble. "Close your eyes, if ya hafta, and imagine the best food of your life. All those smoked meats in the butcher shop window. Pastries and pies fresh pulled from the oven. Candies hanging on the trees for Christmas."
"Whatever you fancy, really," Nizam adds on after gulping heavily from a cup of what looks like orange juice. Droplets spill onto his collarbones, his thin shirt. "If you can picture it, you can have it. Bacon and eggs on toast. Biscuits with raspberry jam. A whole turkey dinner."
Liam gives the boys a dubious glance, tilts his head down the table again. No one else seems to be struggling with it, all tearing into their meals with a kind of vigor usually reserved for packs of dogs. There is no one here to smack the backs of their hands, to remind them of manners and decorum. No looming headmaster or nun with a sour expression, waiting to teach someone a lesson. So, Liam lets himself relax. He closes his eyes, imagines a plate bursting full of all the food he's never been able to try but has seen on those cold nights in London. And when he opens his eyes again, his plate is full.
Down the table, Harry observes this with one fist pressed into his eye. He's incredibly sleepy, the type that sinks into your bones, makes you sluggish even though you're upright. He doesn't remember falling asleep last night, doesn't remember covering himself up. But somehow, he had woken curled in a small ball in the center of the blankets, soft silk against his cheek.
“Are you going to ask me to explain it to you, too?” Louis drawls, rolls his eyes as he looks over at Harry, a hint of a smirk tugging on his lips. He’s taken the bit of satin ribbon – Harry’s kiss – and woven it into the other odds and ends hanging from the earring in his left ear. It stands out among the leather – a soft sage green. “It’s magic. That’s all it is.”
“No, I know,” Harry mumbles, finally relaxing from rubbing at his eye only to fit his hand daintily over his mouth to hide a yawn.
“You not sleep well?” Louis sets his butter knife down, abandoning his own breakfast to stare at Harry with a raised brow. “Missing your old hay mattress, then? The draft from the window?”
“I’m okay. Just getting used to this place. No time and such.” Harry shrugs a little, notices that Louis keeps staring at him even as Harry drags his nail along the edge of his plate. If he’s being honest, he slept deeper than he probably ever has, but when he woke up this morning, he felt groggy, weary almost. Like time wasn’t exactly operating in a way that he’s used to.
“There is no penalty here for napping, you know.” Louis shrugs a bit, reaching over to gently touch Harry’s shoulder, flick a piece of dirt off. “I could find you a quiet place, if you needed it. Away from the boys.”
“You’d do that?” Harry asks, keeps his voice soft even as his eyes go wide, flattered by the offer as butterflies beat inside of his ribs. He can’t seem to shake that feeling. It’s like every time Louis looks at him, meets his gaze, it’s warmth and static all in one. “That’s so kind of you. Thank you, Louis.”
“Yes, well. It’s nothing. A different game. Hide and seek but we forgot where to hide you.” Louis brushes it off, blinking away from meeting Harry’s gaze and instead turning back to his breakfast. “Eat now, though. You’ll need your strength for today.”
He isn't too hungry but he lets his mind wander away from him long enough to procure a strong cup of breakfast tea. It's one of the luxuries Mr. Corden never allowed the boys so Harry would have to sneak the leftovers in the kitchen when he cleared the table. Standing over the smoldering hearth, slurping half cold tea riddled with leaves. The one he conjures for himself is rich and piping hot, just a dash of cream to turn it sweet.
"What's that?" Stan, eyes big and imploring, glances from the wooden mug in Harry's hand to his plate and then back. In the very center is a croissant, a flakey, buttery gold crust.
"Mind your own business, lad," Louis, voice sleep rough and cracking, glances up from his own toast, shaking his head.
Harry doesn't think he's ever had a croissant, a luxury only seen in the windows of the bakeries on River Street. He looks toward Louis, confused, but the other boy seems to have taken a deep interest in the scroll he's reading and refuses to shift his gaze. Carefully, Harry pulls the top layer of the crust off, brings it to his tongue where it immediately begins to melt in his mouth. It's delicious, feels almost too good to be eaten off a table that looks like it was made from a log halved with a rickety ax. But Harry isn't going to try and understand the magic of it. He just lets out a small, pleased sound and watches in utter fascination as the very tops of Louis' cheeks turn pink.
"Harry." Hooking both of his elbows up on the table as he tears into a large piece of chicken, Jamie grins with greasy lips. "If you're our storyteller, why didn't you tell us a story last night?"
"Yeah. I want to know what happened when we went to explore the Cloud Cave," Calvin whines a bit, raising his cup so it sloshes. "Or the fight with the squid in the Lagoon of Darkness."
"He couldn't tell us a story if he and Louis were playing a game," Nizam rolls his eyes, wiping a hand over the back of his mouth.
"A game? What game?" Stan and Calvin lean around Luke to look at each other, eyes wide. "Why weren't we invited?"
"They went up there." Nizam points toward the canopy way, way above them. It’s the forbidden room. No one has ever been allowed to the very top of the Tree House before. "We weren't meant to play, I suppose."
"We weren't playing–” Harry tries to protest, shaking his head, but he's cut off by another voice.
"What did you lot do to deserve a story anyway?"
It takes Harry a full moment to realize that the words are coming from a large ball of light just off in one of the branches along the wall. It’s not the dull flicker of a candle, more startlingly white, like a shard of moonlight balled up and lingering. As if realizing it's been spotted, it moves along the bark until it lingers in the center of the room, growing brighter and brighter until there is a small pop and in the glow's place stands a man. Or. Not a man. Not with the way his oil slick wings flutter along his back.
"Zayn!"
A chorus of voices calls out in greeting, each of them raising their hands as the fairy gives them a small grin. He’s wearing the green dress from before, interwoven leaves tied close together with a sash of vines. If he seemed pretty and sharp-edged in small form, in actual scale, he's devastating. Long eyelashes frame dark eyes that seem to twinkle as the low light of the morning catches on the gold flecks of glitter along his lids. He's covered in intricate runes, ink along his arms, his hands, down over his legs. They look ancient, carved into him with magic that feels older than time.
"Yes, yes. Don't stop the feast for me." Zayn rolls his eyes, rueful grin pointed along the table as he makes his way around it. When he reaches Louis, he deposits a small blue bottle before him, the contents of which swirl silver and then violet. "And for the king. Straight from the well."
"How is your mum?" Louis asks, rolling the scroll back up and carefully tucking it into his belt. He glances up at Zayn with a weary, familiar tilt to his head. Harry isn’t sure what passes between them, but it’s something because gold seems to glow around Zayn’s temples.
"You'd know if you went to visit," Zayn answers, dancing his slim fingers over the tray of fruit before Calvin and snatching a bundle of grapes up. The Lost Boy only gives him a wide grin, chicken still caught in his teeth.
"You know why I won't. She'll try and keep me again." Louis flips the cork on the bottle, grimacing as his expression pulls on the cut above his eyebrow. "Never trust a fae, you know?"
"I don't." Zayn looks entirely affronted for a moment, the air around him crackling, before he seems to swallow it back. "She said the forest was whispering about you. About the way you came back from your fight with–"
"Enough," Louis cuts him off, raises a few fingers in a silent command. It's in his tone – not harsh but firm – and Zayn slowly follows his gaze over to where Harry is sitting.
The boys around him have fallen back into conversation but Harry is silent, picking at the top of his pastry. He isn't trying to be rude by listening in, but he keeps sneaking glances out of the corner of his eye. It's not just that Zayn is probably one of the most beautiful beings he's ever seen. It's also the easy way in which he drapes himself along Louis' side, hand on his bare shoulder, banter sugary sweet and salty. And something like warm heat settles in Harry’s chest, makes his eyes sting and his face feel hot.
"So, our dearest storyteller, how are you finding Neverland?" Zayn asks, switching from leaning on Louis' high-back chair to arching his body toward Harry instead. Up close, it's clear that there are irises and violets woven into his hair. "Better than a fairytale, eh?"
"It's very… lovely." Harry hesitates to find the right word, can hear the others start to quiet, eavesdropping. "I never thought I would ever visit a place so beautiful."
"Visit? You aren't visiting." Oli shakes his head, stuck down at the end of the table next to Niall. "You're staying, right?"
"Oh, you must!" Before Harry can respond, Calvin is already speaking up, half risen out of his chair. "You have to. Louis, you must tell him. He hasn't even told us a story."
"Or played any of the games. Or gone to see the nymphs or the sprites," Luke tags on, slinging an arm around Calvin’s shoulders, pulling the smaller boy into his sides. “And the goblins in the hills.”
"We have to show you the lagoon and the caves and the big hill with all the rocks," Jamie butts in, pointing his finger down into the table as he lists them. "And show you the fruit field and the big statue in the center that Louis says was there when he got here!"
It's astounding how juvenile all of it sounds, how naïve, spilling from the mouths of boys so close to the tipping edge of adulthood. Half the boys at the table have scruff along their jawline, broad shoulders still mounted just under young faces, puppy fat clinging to their bellies. Each of them saved right before they could be forced into manhood.
"Oh. I didn't–" Harry fumbles the words, looking around the table and then up to where Louis is just sitting there, face blank, staring straight ahead. The cut above his brow is healed now, just a thin line. He isn't giving anything away, not even moving his eyes, and Harry feels out of his depths. “I never meant to imply that I wasn’t–”
"We aren't leaving, are we, Haz?" Niall clears his throat, hooks his hand on his chin. From down the table, in his thin pajamas caked in mud, hair a mess of leaves and twigs, he looks incredibly resigned. Like he’s just been given something wonderful and can already see it being ripped away from him. It pulls at Harry's heart so strongly he lets out a soft gasp.
"Besides, we've been waiting for so long for a good storyteller. Someone to send us to bed with good dreams. To tuck us in at night," Nizam tacks on the last bit with a big-eyed stare, bottom lip trembling. "And sing us songs."
"He's not your mum," Liam sighs, though he looks sort of miserable saying it, like he's sure that Harry is about to call it quits on everything. That this was all some sort of teasing game and it's all come unraveled.
"Our mum! Yes! That is what you can be." Calvin pounds a shiny fist on the table, making the cutlery jump. "Of course!"
"Would you like to be our mum? Can take care of us and we'll bring you gifts. Whatever you please," Jamie adds in, grinning charmingly wide. "Flowers from the fields. Rocks from the river. There is a whole waterfall made out of light here."
"And who shall play the dad then?" Luke asks, glancing around the table and then back to Harry with a smirk. "Can't have a mum without a dad. What do you say, Harry?"
"Obviously, me," Louis cuts in then, pushes his chair back from the table so it scrapes loudly on the floor. He doesn't look angry, exactly, more irritated than anything and he puffs out his chest with a quick breath.
And Harry doesn't know why but he feels like it's his fault. Maybe they shouldn't have brought this up, maybe they should have never talked about it. But it wasn't like Harry was trying to link them this way or anything. It wasn't him at all. It was the boys. Before he can fall into the pity of it though, a hand is suddenly reaching down for his arm and Louis is pulling him from the chair.
“So,” Louis asks, looking at Harry with wide, raised eyebrows. “What would a mum and dad do with their children? After such a mess?”
His skin is warm on Harry, matching the mischievous grin already spreading across his face. Harry’s never been around anyone that can look both impish and innocent in the same breath. And it all makes sense now – the blind loyalty of the boys in the room, the way Harry already feels himself giving over to it. He’s pretty sure Louis only has to ask and anyone would jump to please him, to keep him grinning like that.
“Well,” Harry gives into the game, glancing around the room with a smirk, playing into it. “There is the awful punishment of morning chores.”
“Chores! Morning chores?!” A chorus of groans whine up from the table, some of the lads tossing their heads back to complain. “No! Not chores!
“None of that!” Louis claps his hands, voice booming in the cozy space between the wall and the long table. He looks fierce, hands on his hips, lingering just above the ground with his toes pointed up. “Your mum gave you instructions. Get to it!”
It doesn’t take but a moment more for the boys to scramble up, knocking over stools and grabbing up dishes. Most of them don’t even seem to know what actual chores would entail, just gathering everything, shoving it in places, talking over one another. It’s charming really, the way they fight over each other to clear the table, to wipe down a few crumbs. Even Zayn gets in on it, righting a chair that had been thrown to the side.
Louis turns away from the chaos and, instead, catches Harry’s gaze, giving a quick raise of his eyebrow. He’s entirely pleased with himself, always is when a game goes forward without a hitch, when the boys just listen to him without complaint. It’s sweeter with Harry next to him, Harry with his pink cheeks and his bitten lips. He stares at Louis with a small smile, a bit shy with his hands clenched in the side hems of his nightshirt.
“It’s not the most exciting of games but,” Harry shrugs a little, swaying on his heels, “keeps them occupied.”
“It’s bloody brilliant.” Louis leans over, nudges his arm into Harry’s, grinning wide until it makes him squint. “You might be my new favorite. Come on, let’s see what else we can make them do.”
- - -
Time, it seems, has no meaning in Neverland. The sun comes up when Louis is tired of sleeping and it goes down when he sees fit for it to – usually when the other boys have started falling asleep standing up. The weather fluctuates as well; warm and dry when they’re playing a fun game of footie in the Floral Field only to turn rainy and dark when Louis falls behind in a game of tag. The boys are always quick to cheer him up, though, take a turn when it’s not theirs just to put a smile back on his face.
It's hard then for Harry to even know how long he’s been here when he finds himself wandering around by one of the small creeks running through the forest. Louis had been very specific with his rules – you can go anywhere you want on the island, anywhere you please, but no one is allowed to the west. He hadn’t explained, no one ever forces Louis to explain his rules, though Harry had heard Luke and Calvin whispering one night about pirates and monsters that way. He supposes in a land created from dreams, some of it must be from nightmares as well.
Harry can still hear the boys' raucous laughter from a game of swords they're playing under the shade of the Tree House. He can pick out Niall's cackling, Luke's lower shouts, even Zayn and Calvin's snickering. They've been at it all morning, chasing each other, roughhousing. It's a type of playing that Harry hesitates to do, wants to be part of them so desperately but something always holds him back. He'd rather be here, wandering barefoot through the soft underbrush, letting the sunlight spill over his shoulders until he happens upon a small creek. It's a bright turquoise, unnaturally bright, with flecks of silver and copper running through it, cutting over the stones below it like chiming bells.
He walks for a while following the water, its melody soothing in the oppressive heat. Wherever Louis is, he must be happy to keep the sun shining down on them like this. It makes sweat pool in the center of Harry's collarbones, curls damp along his neck. He's almost grateful when the trees suddenly give away and the stream opens up into a small lake. Tall trees line the edges with a small, rocky sort of shore. It's hidden away it seems, so Harry doesn't think anything of slipping his nightshirt up a bit, tying it high on his legs so he can clamber up on a rock, slipping his feet into the cool water.
It's quiet out here, only the cooing of a nearby dove and some crickets to cut through the stillness, though Harry doubts he's alone. It's always just a feeling, a hunch, that the island is sort of like the eyes and ears of Louis. Anything that happens gets reported back, gets told. Maybe it's just hard to separate the creation from the creator. Harry doesn't know, gets lost thinking about it so much that he doesn't even notice her until her hand touches his ankle.
There, in the cool blue of the water, what looks like a woman floats. Or, at least, a version of a woman. Dark skinned with gray and white freckles on her shoulders, chest, and neck, her round face is tilted up toward Harry, pretty with a broad nose and black hooded eyes, full lips pulled back into a grin. She lets out a giggle when Harry startles, pulling his legs back up on the rock as she floats closer.
"Oh, I'm sorry." Voice honey-smooth, she tilts her head to the side, her green coiled hair falling to hang against her shoulder and down into the water. "Did I frighten you?"
"No." Bravely, Harry shakes his head, pulling the hem of his nightdress down between his spread thighs. "I just didn't see you there."
"See me here? In my home?" The woman licks over her lips, her fingers still on Harry's ankle. They're rough, almost scaly against his skin. "You're very silly."
"Home? You live here? In the lake?" Harry glances around. He doesn't see any sort of hut or structure, no cottage hidden among the ferns, though that isn't necessarily a good indicator. You can't even tell it’s a treehouse from the outside.
"I live in every lake I choose. They’re all connected. All water is, did you know?" she states matter of fact, still looking amused. “Even the water inside of you once belonged to the earth.”
“I suppose that’s true.” Harry nods, considers her carefully. She doesn’t seem unsafe, not like any of the sprites or gnomes that the Lost Boys have warned him about that like to play games, but he can’t be sure. He wishes Louis would come find him, come sit with him in the sunshine and tell him about this magical place he’s created, but he’s probably off somewhere. He’s always somewhere.
“You’re very funny, thinking as hard as you are. Silly, little human. Why do you furrow like that when the sun is on you? Can’t you hear Neverland talking to you?” Pushing back a little, the woman spreads her arms and behind her, the very tip of a fin breaks the surface followed by the end of a tail. It's a vibrant red, yellow stripes along the sides speckled with white spots. The woman spins then, showing Harry the length of her tail, the gills on her back, her smooth chest. She's magnificent and preens at Harry's open-mouthed stare.
"You're a mermaid!" Harry scrambles forward, sinks his knees into the water to get a better look at her. "A real mermaid."
"I suppose that you might call me that." The mermaid grins, her teeth sharp in her mouth, pointed much like a shark's. "That's what you and your Lost Boys do."
"My Lost Boys?" Harry feels his face warm up, more delighted than he cares to admit about the phrasing. "You mean Louis' Lost Boys."
"Yes, but also yours. You're Louis' Harry, aren't you?" The mermaid gives a small shake of her tail, pushing herself forward toward the rocks again.
"I suppose." Shrugging a bit, Harry bites at his bottom lip, gaze turned toward the water. He doesn't know if he should agree with her or deny it. Sometimes it feels so much like Louis doesn't even see Harry and other times, it feels like Louis can’t see anything else. Especially at night when Harry wakes just a little from dreaming to see the vague shape of Louis swinging in a hammock in the top of the canopy. Like there is something unspoken between them, a secret, held under the moon.
"But you're not a Lost Boy." The mermaid shakes her head, drawing closer again to rest her arm on the rock, her cheek on top of her palm. "Are you?"
"I–" Harry can't help the way his grin seems frozen a bit in place, sliding just slightly into a grimace. He knows that to be true, too. Because even though Harry plays the games, does the make-believe, dances around the campfire with them – he's always felt a little separated, a little different. It's something he can't exactly explain and he loathes to bring it up. Would never want to seem ungrateful.
“Not a boy,” the mermaid clarifies thoughtfully, her fingers caressing along Harry’s calves, up to his knees. “Not a girl. Not either. But both.”
“Oh.”
Warmth spreads through Harry, sickly and unwell. He’s heard the same before, hurled slurs under breath, cruel names spit into his face. All for Harry who let his hair grow a little too long, has a soft face, soft hands, soft waist. Harry, who always played the princess in all of the orphanage games, who let older boys touch his cheek and whisper to him under the cover of darkness. He knows what people say about him.
“Furrowing again.” The mermaid shakes her head, fingertips tracing a slow circle over Harry’s knee. “Why are you so worried? I’m just like you.”
“Are you?” Harry hesitates, wants to tug down his nightshirt, wishes he was wearing trousers at least. There had been no time when Louis had come through the door, though. Harry hadn’t thought of anything practical, too entranced by the possibility that things might be better, that there was hope.
“I’m not a girl nor am I a fish.” Splashing her tail out of the water, the mermaid makes a gesture down the length of her body. “I’m both. And that is alright, isn’t it? Can’t be anything other than what I am.”
Before, in London, under the cruel swinging cane of Mr. Corden, Harry would have said no. That it wasn’t possible for him to be anything more than what people told him he was. If Mr. Corden said he was a pathetic orphan, that he wouldn’t amount to anything other than a shadow left in the mines, well, who was Harry to disagree? But here – surrounded by magic and wonder and enchantments beyond what Harry could have ever imagined – it doesn’t seem that complicated.
Harry is living now within a dream. Why can’t he be who he wants? What he wants? It’s like he’s spent his whole life fighting and covering himself up, hiding parts of him away that would never fit into the world. But here, anything is possible. Anything at all. So why not?
“I suppose that’s true.” Nodding, Harry feels the chunk of the cold inside of his chest begin to thaw a little, letting out a helpless giggle. “You are what you are. And here, that’s okay?”
“Exactly.” The mermaid smiles, her shark teeth glinting in the sun as she pushes herself back, spreading her arms through the water. “Why wouldn’t the same be for you?”
“Because I wasn’t made here.” Harry shrugs his shoulders, pulling his hands up in his lap to pick at his fingers. The bruises across his knuckles are completely gone. “I’m from somewhere else. Louis only brought me here to help with the Lost Boys.”
“Are you sure that’s why he brought you here? The only reason? Louis’ heart is complicated, you know, full of magic and secrets. Like you, a pearl yet to be released from your shell. You’re more than meets the eye.” The mermaid gives a slight tilt to her head, something glimmering in her eye, but she doesn’t pursue it. Instead, she immediately changes the subject. “Why are you wearing that?”
“Wearing what? This?” Plucking at the shoulder of his nightshirt, Harry looks down at it. In the time he’s been in Neverland, the thin piece of cloth has taken some damage. The hem is torn and a little dirty from climbing over rocks, from laying out in the field. His pearl still sits against his sternum, shining under the ties that have come unraveled, leaving half his chest exposed.
“Yes. That.” The mermaid wrinkles her nose, swaying back so she puts some water between them. “Do you want something else?”
“Oh, um. I can’t. I left all my clothes back in the other place.” Harry grimaces. Hard-pressed, he’s not even sure he can remember what it was that he used to wear there. A suit maybe? A set of itchy, woolen pants with the hem at the ends let out so he could still wear them even after he hit his last growth spurt.
“Silly human.” The mermaid splashes Harry, a few drops hitting his skin. “Come in. We’ll play and I’ll see what my sisters and I have for you. We can weave moonlight into silk, if you want. Or pull down the clouds and wrap them around you. Even dye the seaweed to match your eyes, though it might not be far off already.”
“Come in there?” Harry asks, though he’s already moving, using his hands to push himself along the rock.
“Yes, yes! I won’t drown you. I just want to play with you.” The mermaid grins, shark teeth and a black tongue licking over her lips. “Just for a while.”
“Okay.”
The mermaid has been so nice to him so far, Harry has no reason to think otherwise. He glances back over his shoulder just once, just to see the trees gently swaying in the breeze, the sun still bright, and then he slips into the cool, dark water of the lake.
- - -
It's an itch, a sudden coiling feeling right in the center of his chest, hits him so hard that he stops flying – paused in the air above the evergreens.
The Lost Boys operate like a live wire connected directly into Louis' core. He can feel them, their little pops of energy and light, knows when something is wrong, knows when they're happy, knows where they are. It helps him keep them safe, helps him intervene when games get a little too rough or someone is pulled down by their sad thoughts. So, he feels it instantly, when the peaceful green glow of Harry suddenly goes out. It's not that it's sad. It's not that it's hurt. It's just – gone.
"Oi, what is it?" Zayn, who had been following Louis around, stops beside him. He's in full body form, a little taller than Louis with his flower crown full of dahlias today.
"I–" Louis hesitates, searching across the island in his mind, centering toward the West. But he doesn't feel anything – not a blip, not a shadow. "I'm missing one."
"Missing one? Missing who?" Zayn cranes his head around, raising an eyebrow. "Did Oli get stuck in that cave again? I'll kill Luke for talking–"
"No. No, it's Harry. He was there." Louis points toward the small break in the trees over toward the Northeast. "And then. He was not."
"Not? Like gone? Just completely gone?" Zayn's wings flutter harder, his mouth pulled down in a frown. "How is that possible?"
"I don't know. But I have to find him."
Louis doesn't wait for Zayn. He doesn't wait for anything, really. Something hot is building up in his chest, a blind sort of panic that Louis has never felt before, not like this. Why would Harry's light suddenly go out? Where is he? What happened? What if he's hurt beyond what Louis and a bit of magic can fix?
He's not so blind to not remember what happens to people in the other world. Harry had been standing on that windowsill for a purpose, for a reason. But surely he hadn't been pushed to that here, not in Neverland, not when Louis told him he could have anything he ever wanted, he just had to ask.
Diving through the trees, Louis rushes to the edge of the lake. He's familiar with it, knows what lives there, and the pit in his stomach grows as he sees the stillness of the water, the silence of the trees around them. Louis hadn't meant to ever create anything dangerous in Neverland. Not intentionally, at least, but he had created mischievous beings and this is one of them.
"Yemọja!" Louis shouts at the top of his lungs, so loud the whole earth seems to shake under his feet. Everything is called to attention. "What have you done? What have you done?"
Nothing. The water doesn't ripple, doesn't break, and Louis' anger grows.
"Yemọja, give him back right now." Snarling with his teeth clenched, Louis stomps his foot into the rocky shore, the sky above beginning to gather in clouds. "Give him back or I'll come in there. I'll pull you out by your tail and–"
"Louis." A head emerges from the water, large eyes blinking up at him as water falls off of her face. She is as lovely as she is deadly. "Now, now, Louis. No need for such anger. The boy came to me. How was I supposed to know? He was all alone."
"Where is he? What have you done with him?" Louis snaps, pushes himself up off the shore to hover above the water. He's tilted himself forward, face inches from hers with his legs outstretched at an angle. "If you've hurt him–"
"Hurt him? Why would we hurt him? You know that is not our way," Yemọja says, her wet hands coming up to touch Louis' face. She doesn't make contact, though, Louis’ snapping out to grab her wrist.
"You can't just take what isn't yours. He doesn’t belong to you. He isn’t for you," he snarls, gnashing his teeth at her so hard his jaw aches from it, molars clicking. "Now, I'll ask you one more time, where is Harry?"
"He is below. Safe with my sisters. I will get him for you, but you must release me." Yemọja says it calmly but there is a fire there, a burning in her gaze as she tugs against Louis' hold.
"Go get him. Now."
Louis shoves her back, can barely keep his anger at bay. Above him, heavy clouds full of rain have gathered, cutting out the brilliant sun. Lightning cracks between them and a strong wind has picked up, shaking the trees and plants around them. Yemọja does not look scared, though, just raises an eyebrow at him, head tilted to the side.
"I'd be careful, Louis, with the way your heart is swelling. This is not a game you're used to, is it? How very confusing for you. For him."
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Louis snarls, can feel his teeth ache from how hard he’s clenching his teeth. “You’re telling falses.”
“Oh, but you do. You just don’t remember how this works. How it feels, do you?” Yemọja grins slowly, her smile sharp from her dripping fangs. “The burn and sting of young love.”
“I won’t hear any of this. Go get him now or suffer the consequences.” Done with it all, Louis makes a show of reaching for the small dagger at his hip.
“I’ll grant you a favor, then. You’ll soon remember it. All in good time. All with a little help.”
With that, Yemọja disappears below the water. It ripples and splashes a bit from her movement and then goes still, almost glasslike even against the angry breeze around. It's magic, surely, the deep blue of it turning darker and darker, almost like a never-ending void. Just when Louis is sure he’s going to have to plunge himself down and fight to get him back, he catches sight of something against the pitch black. There, in the center, is something glowing. The closer it gets, the clearer the color is – a pale blue glimmering around Harry’s quickly rising body.
He breaks the surface with a gasp, floating on his back until Louis reaches for him, wraps his arms tightly around his waist and pulls. They come out of the lake in a rush of water, dripping all across each other – Harry soaked, Louis quickly becoming the same. It isn’t until they’re on the shore that Louis even realizes how different Harry looks. He’s traded out his thin, ragged nightshirt for a dress of soft woven silk, dyed to match the very color of the sky it seems. Its puffy sleeves end just above his elbows, the hem now clinging to the tops of his legs. It’s pretty, with a ribbon around Harry’s thin waist, the ends dripping as Louis lays him down on the soft bed of ferns just past the rocky shore.
“You’re so stupid, Harry. You’re so foolish. Why would you follow her into the water?” Louis asks, hands frantic on Harry’s face, checking him for marks, for anything that hurts, moving on his throat, brushing his curls back. “Harry! Why would you do that, huh?”
“She’s my friend. She was nice to me.” Harry coughs, lips blue but turning pink as he sucks in lungfuls of air. He’s cold to the touch, but he reaches up his hands to gently grip the back of Louis’ arms, his shoulders. “She listened–“
“She was trying to keep you. She wasn’t going to let you go.” Louis gives up on trying to fly, sinks his knees down onto either side of Harry’s leg, pinning him down to the soft leaves. “Is that what you want? You want to leave? She would have kept you under the water forever.”
“No! No, I’m sorry I–” Harry chokes, blinking up at Louis with confused, slightly hazy eyes. “Louis, I–”
“I could feel your light go out.” Tugging roughly on Harry’s shoulders, Louis pulls him close, hugs him to his chest. “I couldn’t find you and I was worried you–”
“I’m right here. It’s alright. I’m right here, love.”
Harry falls into Louis’ embrace, wrapping his arms tightly around him. And it feels like Louis can finally draw in a breath. He doesn’t understand it, doesn’t want to worry about why he’s so upset, so terrified. He wants to say he’d be the same for any of the lost boys, just as frantic, just as worried, but he has the sinking suspicion that it isn’t the case. That this is something else.
Hands sliding down Harry’s shoulders, Louis grips onto his waist, pulling back just enough he can see him again. Harry doesn’t look hurt, a little flushed in the cheeks now, but not bleeding or sore. It’s as Louis sweeps his gaze over him, though, that he notices. The dress is lovely, thin and made from mermaid and water enchantment, but it’s waterlogged. It clings to the cut of Harry’s body – his chest, his ribs, his waist. Louis can see the dip where his hips extend into his thighs, the fabric rolled dangerously high on his legs.
Louis’ stomach fills with heat, a sort of burn like the flicker of a flame in the dark. He can’t stop staring, trying to memorize Harry’s long curls hanging against his cheeks, his eyes wide and incredibly green against the foliage he’s laid down on. It does something weird to him, sparks him up, until he realizes what it is – something he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. Not since before Neverland. Not since the world was different and Louis knew what guilt was. Stirs him up, makes it feels dangerous to be perched on top of Harry like this, like with the wrong move he’ll give it all away.
“Louis.” Harry seems just as caught as his mouth falls open in a gasp, reaching out to gently touch the bundle of ribbons and string hanging from Louis’ ear.
“S’alright,” Louis croaks, rocks back so he’s sitting on his heels, safe, away from Harry’s outstretched arms. It helps, if only slightly, to clear the air between them. “You didn’t know. I’m not mad.”
“I worried you, though.” Reaching up, Harry pushes a wet curl from his jaw, frowning a little as he does it. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to leave. She was just kind to me and she wanted me to come visit and I–”
“Just…” Sighing deeply, Louis lets out a frustrated growl. “You have to be careful, alright? I can’t have you falling into lakes or disappearing or getting kidnapped by the fae or the mermaids or the pi–” He stops, shaking his head. “What would I tell the boys?”
“Oh. Yes.” Color blooms across Harry’s cheeks as he pushes himself forward, using his hands to smooth down the hem of his dress. He has to dislodge Louis to get up, stumbling to his feet on wobbly knees as Louis is left to float a little awkwardly until he can touch down again.
“Harry–” Louis reaches out, trying to grab onto him as Harry starts walking out of the small patch of ferns.
“It’s fine, Louis. I get it. I know it’s part of the game.” Harry throws it over his shoulder, tone turned sharp, sad, bristling. “I’ll see you back at the house.”
“Harry! Wait!” Stomping his foot again in frustration, Louis sprints the few yards to catch him, gripping his shoulder to turn Harry to him. They’re both soaking wet, look half-drowned, and Louis isn’t sure if it’s lake water or not in Harry’s eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that. I only meant…” He stops, hesitates, and Harry gives a short nod, resigned.
“I’m your storyteller.” Filling in the words, Harry reaches a hand up, touches the edge of the earring again. “I know that. I know what you wanted me here for.”
“You’re my storyteller.” Louis stresses. This feels like a conversation that is weighed down in iron, heavy and stifling, but important. It’s teetering on the edge of being too adult but if Louis doesn’t get it out now, he’s afraid that he never will. “You have to know that I don’t just hand pick boys out of London every day. I don’t. Not like you. I came back for you.”
Green eyes go wide, eyelashes stuck together as Harry stares at Louis. It’s like all of Neverland is frozen around them, time paused the longer the two of them take each other in. He’s lovely – that, Louis is certain of – with dimples just hinting in his cheeks as Harry finally lets out a soft grin. It’s a knowing look, a telltale sign of understanding, and he leans in then, pressing his blush against Louis’.
“Alright, Lou. Okay. I understand.”
Louis’ glad that Harry does because Louis certainly doesn’t. He isn’t sure what any of it means, only certain that he can’t let Harry just walk away like that. Carefully, Louis trails his fingertips along Harry’s cool arm, down until they can lace their fingers together. It’s a simple touch – he holds hands with the others sometimes – but this feels different. Better in the way their fingers and knuckles caress, held tight like a braided rope. Harry’s fingertips press into the back of Louis’ hand and it feels good, better than Louis would have thought.
“Can we go walk now?” Louis asks, nudging his head toward the path. “Being angry is boring. Let’s go take a nap in the field. I can make the clover sing, if you want.”
“Okay,” Harry readily agrees, doesn’t even hesitate as Louis starts moving.
It would be easier if they flew over there, faster, but Louis quite likes the strolling. It’s nice, just walking among the plants, listening to the animals rustling around in the underbrush. The island must be sensing Louis’ good mood because it turns warm again, not stifling or dense, but pleasant with a warm breeze coming in from the southwest. Makes the air around them smell sweet like the citrus trees down there, lemons and oranges and limes.
The Lost Boys are all spending time along the north shore at the jumping rocks, so it feels like they’re the only two here. Just Harry and Louis, walking in a garden of their own creation. Time turns to syrup as they make their way through the forest and then up through the sycamore glade. Here, he can just make out the sound of the large metal chimes high up in the branches. They play a soft melody as Harry throws his head back to stare, awestruck and amazed as the notes carry along the bark of the trees.
Louis isn’t sure what they’re playing but he’s also sure he’s winning. He has to be with the way he’s filled up with light, sure if he opens his mouth too wide it will all come spilling out of him. Harry keeps sneaking glances at him out of the corner of his eye, watching Louis as he helps him through the thick foliage, flying them over fallen logs. He never loses the smile on his face, just the hint of one in the corner, enough to bring out his dimples.
“What’s your favorite story of me?” Louis asks right after he’s lifted Harry off his feet, floating them over a large puddle in the center of the trail.
“Favorite story of you?” Tossing his head back, Harry lets out a scoffing laugh. “Oh, the ego on you. Haven’t you ever heard of pride being a sin?”
“There are no sins in Neverland. Why would there be? And besides, I want to know. You used to make them up.” Louis shrugs, not bothered in the slightest as his fingers flex in Harry’s, squeezing his palm. “You must have a favorite.”
Harry hums in concentration, reaching up a hand to tap his chin. He seems to be playing with Louis, toying with him, by his mischievous grin. Louis thinks this might be his favorite game of all time – the push and pull of too much, too little, the two of them. It feels too easy, like pieces clicking together, steps falling into line. Harry rounds out the jagged edges of Louis and Louis wishes he had stolen Harry away ages ago – back when he first heard him weaving stories.
“I liked the first one, when you made this place.” Harry passes under the low hanging branches of a flowering tree, the vines sliding over his cheek like a veil. Some of the pale violet petals get caught in his still wet hair, looking over his shoulder at Louis with a small grin. He looks like a mermaid first on land, pretty and pale, covered in the ocean colors. “When you brought the first boys here.”
“I can’t remember how long ago that was,” Louis answers honestly, lets their entwined hands guide him forward, skipping over soft earth and branches. “I suppose it must have been a while. I think Luke got taller. Oli never grew into his ears. Calvin, well, Calvin was always loud.”
“What about Roland?” Harry asks, pausing to hop over a small stream, the stones below cooing up at him. The whole of Neverland seems entranced with him, always stretching toward Harry – the flowers, the butterflies, all of them longing to be closer.
“Who?” Cold creeps up like a frost in a false spring, clings to Louis’ spine, his shoulders rolling back as he tries and fails to shrug it off. He knows why Harry would know about him – at least know the basics – but it still twists deep in Louis’ gut to hear that name falling out of Harry’s soft mouth.
“Roland. Don’t you remember?” Harry lets Louis pull him closer, carefully making their way through some long hanging branches. It’s very quiet in this part of the forest, not even the birds managing to break into song. It’s why Harry’s voice seems so loud when he turns under the shade of a tree, eyes wide and curious. “Your first Lost Boy. That’s how the story goes.”
“First, last. What does it matter?” Louis shrugs, pushes himself against Harry, guides him under the long vines of the willow tree. Under the canopy, it’s dark, just enough light to see one another, the outline of movement until Harry’s back hits the tree, Louis looming against him. “I think I have all the ones I need now.”
“Now?” Reaching up, Harry drags a hand through his now mostly dry curls, pushing them back from his face. Louis reaches up to fix one that has gone unruly by his temple. “Why now?”
“Come on, Harry.” Louis rolls his eyes. He’s already getting tired of this conversation, would much rather be discussing the other adventures he’s been on, the stories Harry used to tell about Louis with an excited voice and moving hands. He presses his hands into the bark on either side of Harry’s shoulders, keeping him pinned there, close enough to smell the salt water still clinging to his dress. “Why would I need more? I have my lads. I have my fairy. I have you.”
“You do.” Timidly, Harry reaches up, brushes his fingers along the cut of Louis’ shoulder, down onto his chest, fingertips cold as they press just under his collarbone. “But what happened to him? You have everyone else from the stories – Stan, Calvin, Luke, Nizam, Jamie, Oli. Even Zayn was in the stories, too. So where is–“
“Some people are meant to be forgotten.” It feels like Louis’ tongue is a dead weight behind his teeth, forcing the words out in a voice pitched low. Harry shudders at it, doesn’t turn away but his eyes go a bit wide, hand softly moving up and down along Louis’ sternum. It’s as soothing as it is distracting.
“Okay.” It seems that even though he doesn’t understand it, Harry accepts it for what it is. “I’m sorry.”
“Why? You wanted to know. I told you. End of it. Right, love?” Louis shrugs, lifts a hand off the tree to touch the puffy sleeve of Harry’s dress. It’s soft, magic-made, and clings to Harry like it was woven specifically for him. A much better fit than that old shirt he had been wearing. “This is nice. Did Yemọja make it for you then?”
“She told me it was a gift.” Harry nods his head, looking down as he smooths the hem over the tops of his thighs. “She said I am like her. You know – half one thing, half another. And that here in Neverland, it didn’t matter. That lines aren’t really a thing here.”
“Are you sprouting scales then?” Louis teases, reaches down to run his palm over Harry’s legs as if he’s expecting them to be rough now. It earns a loud, cackling laugh from Harry who throws his head back and tries to squirm away. Louis is faster, though, and he catches him around the waist, pushing forward until they’re pressed flush, backed up against the tree again.
“No, no. Of course not.” Giggling still, Harry shakes his head until his expression turns somber, straight teeth biting into his bottom lip. “But I may be… something else?” He pauses, whispering the next part as if he’s afraid to say it. “Not a Lost Boy. Or a Lost Girl. But maybe, both? Or not? Or in the middle?”
“Oh.” Louis mulls it over, glancing down at the way Harry’s mouth looks bitten pink. He has the sudden urge to press his against it, to see if he’s warm there, too, if he tastes like salt. It’s such a strong urge – so foreign, so exciting – that he nearly misses the next part of what Harry says.
“Is that alright? I know that you created this dream of a place and everything is perfect. Neverland is perfect. I don’t want you to think it’s ruined because I’m not the way you want me. I just can’t help who I am, Louis. You have to understand. I felt like this before, back in London, and I couldn’t put it into words then, but I can now. I can. And I don’t want to go back to the way things were, the way I was forced to be, and–”
“Harry!” Louis cuts off the rambling with a hand over the lips that he can’t stop staring at. Harry’s eyes go wide above his palm but he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t scream, just stands there with his breath coming out in sharp pants against Louis’ skin.
“Why would I care? Why would that matter at all to me?” Harry tries to interrupt but Louis doesn’t release him yet, feels like this is important. “You are here because I want you here. And if that includes you wearing a dress or a bundle of leaves or nothing at all and being a Lost Harry instead of a Lost Boy or a Lost Girl, then that’s that.”
They stare at each other, half illuminated by the minimal light coming through the heavy branches of the willow tree. Louis doesn’t understand why this is so complicated, though he imagines it probably has something to do with how the other world runs. It’s been a long time since Louis was part of that place but he can vaguely remember the feeling of a starched collar around his throat, the role he was meant to play. It had been a boring game then and it’s ridiculously mundane now. Why would anyone want to follow a plot written by somebody else? Why would anyone force someone to do anything at all?
“I just need to know one thing, love, that’s all.” Louis very carefully pulls his hand back, reaches up to fix that same curl again. “Are you a he or she or they?”
“Um.” Harry rubs his lips together, thinking, before he lets out a shuddering breath. “I think, he. For now. But it might change. If that’s alright?”
“Whatever you decide is fine. Of course, it is.” Louis pushes himself back, raking his eyes slowly over Harry. He’s just… something else. Louis feels everything at once when he’s around him – hot and cold and flustered and enamored and overwhelmed. It’s not a game he knows how to play. It’s not even a game, it seems, not of the normal sort. He has to break some of the tension before it drives him insane.
“Now come on. I can feel your heavy thoughts from here. Can’t drag you over to the fields if you weigh a ton.” Rolling his eyes and puffing out his chest, Louis lifts himself off the ground, flying around Harry in a quick circle before he lands on his back, looking at him upside down. “Alright, darling? Chin up.”
“Okay.” Giggling again, Harry ducks his head bashfully, peeking up at Louis through his eyelashes with pink cheeks. It’s the same feeling – alluring and distracting – and Louis flips over so he can see him clearly, wants to remember this part. Harry reaches his hand up, lets Louis link their fingers together so he can guide him into the air. Harry is still timid when it comes to flying, but he does well when he’s close to Louis, uses him as an anchor.
“Lou?” Harry asks as they break out from between the branches of the tree, floating over the top of the canopy toward Floral Fields. “You never told me. What is your favorite story?”
“I dunno.” Louis shrugs a bit, turns to watch as the sun catches in Harry’s curls, outlines his body between the soft silk of his dress. “Think mine hasn’t been told yet. The one that is happening right now.”
“That is a very clever answer.” Grinning wide, Harry shakes his head.
“Well, I’m a very, very clever boy. Didn’t you know?” Louis raises a brow before curving them forward, guiding Harry through the air and into the flowers below.
- - -
Neverland looks different from the sky at night, a large island molten with specks of light and darkness, shadow and fantasy. The moon, barely a sliver in the sky, reflects dimly on the dark water. It makes the dark wood of the ship gleam black amongst the rolling waves, the flag snapping open and shut, fluttering as Louis gets closer.
The usual humdrum isn't happening on board, the deck left mostly empty except for the lookout and a drunk asleep by the helm. It makes it easy for Louis to land on the bow then, bare feet barely making a noise as he steps forward. The captain's quarters are just up ahead and light is spilling from the small windows along the back, barely brighter than a candle.
"What does he have?!"
A voice, booming and hoarse, spills out from the cracked doorway. It has Louis freezing, curling his hands at his sides as he listens in. It's a familiar sound, so very familiar, and every time Louis hears it, it drives a wedge deeper into the scarred-over wound of it all. Reminds him of a time before, back when everything was new and dreams were just beginning to be pulled into reality.
Captain Hook looms over his large mahogany desk, his shoulders rolled forward as he glares down at the map before him. His long hair is tied back in a mess of black curls at the base of his neck, his beard scraggly and sharp along his jaw. A large billowy shirt hangs open on his front, left to show off the long scar cut jaggedly across his chest before it disappears into his fitted, black trousers.
"The flowers are all in bloom. The ocean is calm. There is a fucking rainbow in the sky. What does he have now?"
Throwing himself back, Captain Hook throws his hands in the air and the candlelight gleams over it. There, attached to his right hand, is a large shining hook. It looks manmade, rough pounded silver, sharp as a sword with the way the edge points dangerously back toward his wrist. Louis remembers vividly when he lost his hand, when it went bouncing over the deck of the boat they’re on now, the deafening scream only broken by the crash of the waves as the hand fell to the ocean below.
"Maybe, Cap, maybe he's just happy? He is Louis. Maybe that's all it takes." Abram, a short little man with blond curls and a sallow-looking body, curls in on himself in the corner. He's first mate, indicated by the little blue cap in his hair.
"No. That's not it. Tommo has something," Hook seethes, slamming his fist onto the table to make the ale in his cup slosh. “Who did he bring back with him? New Lost Boys, hm? Who are they? I want to meet them.”
“Scouts confirmed there are three of them, Cap’n. New ones, at least," Abram stammers, nodding his head quickly. "Aren't sure who they are but Josiah saw one of them swimming with the mermaids."
"With the mermaids?" Slowly, Hook's dark gaze slides from the map before him, glaring under a heavy brow. "Who?"
"Didn't get a name. Josiah says he's pretty, though. Enough that the mermaids gave him a dress of blue ocean silk." Abram cringes when Hook inhales sharply. "He's significantly protected by the others, too."
Hook seems to take the words in, digest them slowly as he rolls his tongue around his mouth, tasting them. Abandoning the map, he stands up straight, rolls his shoulders back, and starts to make his way around the large desk. Abram recoils in his spot near the wall, making himself smaller even as his eyes grow wide.
"So, Louis got himself a little, pretty, new toy, you say?"
"We don't know much more than that, sir. We can send out a new scout tomorrow. See if he can lure him out." Abram stammers over his words, hands outstretched. "Louis doesn't let him–"
"No." A loud bang sounds through the office as the pirate swings his hook, pressing it deep into the wood just a mere inch from Abram's right eye. "I want him. You will bring him to me."
"Y-Yes, yes, Cap'n. I mean– Yes, sir." Abram gasps in horror, chest heaving.
Rolling his eyes at the barbaric display, Louis makes a point of banging the office door into the opposite wall as he shoves it open, stepping inside. It only takes a quick sweep of his gaze to pinpoint any areas of interest – the open window at the other side, the large swords mounted on the wall, the half-empty tankard of ale. And then Hook himself who whirls around with wild eyes.
"You stupid wanker. Haven't you learned I don't share my toys?"
"Louis!" Hook hisses, yanking hard to dislodge his hook from the wood.
"The one and only." Hands on his hips, Louis lets himself float off the ground with a wide smirk. "Now, send your poor first mate to bed. Unless you need a chaperone to talk to me. Feeling a little cowardly, mate?"
With a snarl, Hook glances down at Abram and then quickly jerks his head toward the door. The pirate doesn't need to be told twice as he practically rolls off his perch by the window, fleeing out onto the main deck with the sharp click of his boots on the wood. Louis waits until he can't hear it anymore before tapping his heel on the door and letting it swing shut.
"Been a long time since you came to visit me, Tommo." Away from the prying eyes of his crew, Hook's sharp teeth glint more into a smirk than a grimace. "Missed me?"
"Should ask you that considering you can't seem to leave my name out of your mouth." Louis doesn't let himself touch the floor, instead floats over toward the wall, taking in the odds and ends held up by small tacks. There are knives and tools and maps and a blue bandana wedged just under a frame half covered in dust.
"How can anyone forget you in a place like this?" Hook asks, staying where he is and watching the other. "Isn't that what you wanted? All your play things together. All the attention on you."
"Don't tell me you're still salty about what happened." Louis glances over his shoulder, corner of mouth raising in a crooked smirk.
"You–" Hook's mouth falls open in surprise, eyes bulging. It makes him look the age he is, not so hidden behind his cruel gaze and scraggly beard. Louis can almost see it then, the before – the previous version of him that lives in Louis' deepest memories.
"You chose your fate." Louis shrugs, turning all the way around to face him. "We all made choices."
"Choices? You want to talk to me about choices?" Hook hisses through his clenched teeth, his one true hand curled into a fist. "I told you how I felt and–"
"You wanted to ruin it." Louis won't stand to hear this again. He's heard it so often, remembers it all so suddenly, so vividly. He won't. He can't.
"So, you ruined me?"
It's a desperate move. Hook swings his arm, the hook glinting in the light as it arches down. Louis didn't have time to get away from it, didn't realize how fast it would come, the tip of the steel slicing through his shoulder as he rolls along the wall. Hook swings again even as Louis cries out, flying up to yank on the swords mounted on the wall.
They come away with a crash and Louis won't be caught off guard again. He swings the saber through the air, not really aiming, managing to catch Hook across the collarbones before he plunges the sword forward, through his shirt. It pins him back into the wall, not permanently, but enough to keep him in place so Louis can fly forward, slam the full extent of his weight into the other man.
"You cu–" Hook tries to lean forward, wheezing, but Louis gets a hand on his neck, pinning him down.
"You listen here, you fuck."
This close, Louis' eyes gleam an unsettling shade of blue. The type the sky turns just before a storm when it's holding all the power, all the electricity, just barely at bay.
"Keep away from my boys. Keep away from my island. I allow you to stay here out of pity for you, but I won't be so kind if you try anything to hurt them."
“Who do you have now, Lou? Who is he?” Hook asks, brittle and broken behind the collar of Louis’ palm on his throat. “Is he everything you wanted, hm?”
Silence. Louis just stares, chest throbbing as Hook hisses at him, lips and teeth wet with spit. He looks like a wild dog, pinned back against the wall and frantic, and Louis has never felt so far removed from a memory before. The boy that lingers just in the back of his brain would never have looked at him like this, vicious and cruel, a twist of agony turning those dark eyes into those of a stranger’s.
“You wanted this. You said so yourself.” Louis shakes his head, lip curled up in disgust. “So act like a man.”
He doesn’t let himself linger then, lands the words like a final blow before taking off, flying through the open window and into the night.
- - -
Being the mother of more than half a dozen boys, most of whom are older than you, at the time had seemed like a fun game. Harry enjoys the domesticity of it – taking care of them, making sure they clean up, are well-fed, remember to wash behind their ears, are kind in their playing. It’s not that different from the role he had in the orphanage, except that here in Neverland, the boys are always eager to listen. They enjoy this game just as much as Harry does, especially because they know it pleases Louis.
Louis, who sits on his large throne in the center of the Tree House and watches as Harry directs the boys to wash their hands before dinner or make their beds before going out to play. It’s a large chair made with cut crystals and bones to form a half sun above Louis, the seat wide enough he can lounge sideways in it. It’s a chair fit for a king and then, when the boys are busy with whatever chore or task they have, Louis asks Harry to come sit with him or disappear up to the canopy room for ‘mother and father time.’
They mostly just talk, quiet conversations about what they’re going to do that day, what funny thing one of the boys did, or on the rare occasion that Louis has to go somewhere alone on the island, Harry is allowed to go about doing what he wants. It’s only happened a few times – fixing disputes among the fae or corralling a flock of albatross away from the Jumping Rocks. Louis can’t always just run around and play games. Sometimes, he has to be king.
It’s one of these occasions that Harry finds himself perched before the fireplace with a basket of mending. He’s not that great at sewing, just knows the basics really, but it’s a necessary skill to have when the boys are constantly ripping through a knee in their trousers, slicing through shirt sleeves. Harry isn’t sure where the clothes come from – a chest in the corner seems to always be overflowing with costumes and the like – but he doesn’t mind it. It makes him feel needed, wanted, to be able to give something back to his boys.
He's lounging back on an old velvet couch, the corners of which are moth bitten and faded, but it’s cozy in its own way. Niall joined him almost instantly when Harry had sat down, curling up on the floor before him with a small piece of wood and a knife. He’s been working on whittling a bit, making small toys and charms. Niall has never been one for idle hands so it makes sense he’s found something to do with them here of all places. A tiny, roughly-shaped hummingbird sits in the hollow of a tree branch now next to Harry’s bed, its edges dyed purple with blueberry juice.
The fire crackles, smoke spiraling up and through the metal pipes in the side of the tree and the boys all sigh. It’s late, the moon just barely visible through one of the windows carved into the wall. It’s just a thumbnail tonight, barely shining anything on the forest below. Louis must be doing something that takes a lot of his attention.
“Mum.” Nizam looks up, a long piece of grass between his teeth. He’s sprawled out with Oli and Jaime on a large pile of cushions on the other side of the fire, looking entirely comfortable wrapped up around each other in a makeshift puppy pile. “Will you tell us a story?”
“A story?” Harry pulls his needle through the buttonhole, tugging until it’s secure and then flipping it over to go back in. “What sort of story?”
“A nice story.” Jaime cracks an eye open, face scrunched up on one side. “A good one, yeah? With a happy ending.”
“I only tell happy endings.” Glancing up at them, Harry lets a soft smile spread over his face. He’s grown attached to them, so very attached, even in the short time he’s been here. Harry feels at peace here, needed and adored by this odd collection of boys, by the light that Louis leads them all with.
“Tell us your story then. What about your other home? The place before?” Nizam asks, lips shifting around the grass. “What was it like?”
“It was always cold. And wet. And there was never enough food or blankets,” Niall interjects, flicking a large woodchip off the piece he’s been working on. It’s starting to take the shape of some sort of animal, though it’s still vague in its design. “And it was miserable.”
“Not always,” Harry chastises gently, finishing with one button and moving on to the next. Luke had mysteriously ripped his shirt open one day during a rough game of tag, thus Harry having to mend it together again. “We had some happy times. Christmas with the meal by the Sisters of Saint Brigid. That one day we had a picnic in the garden when Mr. Corden was away.”
“Don’t romanticize it, Harry. You know that’s not what it was,” Niall mutters, ignoring the curious eyes of the boys now flicking between the pair. Harry feels seen in a weird sort of way, studied. They’re all close in age, close in stature, but there is such a divide. Harry, Liam, and Niall haven’t been in Neverland long enough to forget the before, to lose their sense of good Englishmen direction.
“What are we talking about?”
Luke, Calvin, and Liam all come stomping in from outside, flushed and sweating. Whatever they were doing, it seems to have resulted in Calvin soaking wet, a lily pad stuck to the top of his head much like a makeshift hat. Luke is splotchy with water, too, though Liam looks unbothered really, his trousers only a little tattered on the edges, covered in a bit of mud. Though, it seems like all of them are – the only one who manages to keep clean is Harry.
“Mum was talking about happy times in the other place,” Nizam answers, sitting up a bit as the other lads come further in, flopping down on the open cushions, on the fur rug.
Only Luke is bold enough to come sit beside Harry, crooked grin and eyes gleaming as he steps over Niall and flops on the couch. He lifts Harry’s feet up from where they were tucked into a cushion, palm warm as he tugs a little until Harry has no choice but to stretch his legs out, setting his heels into Luke’s thigh. It’s not unpleasant, it would feel almost casual and platonic, if not for the way Luke’s gaze sweeps over Harry’s calves, up to where the dress has twisted on his thighs. It makes Harry feel warm, squirming a little as he tugs down the hem.
He's not sure how to feel about it. Or even if he should be thinking about it at all. It’s just sometimes he catches Luke looking at him a little differently than he looks at the others. Like he wants to say something but he never gets the words out. Instead, he’ll brush past Harry with fingertips tracing the curve of his arm or over his back. Whenever it happens, Luke always makes sure to grin over his shoulder at Harry, pointed and cocky, before rushing over to the others.
Harry knows, to some degree, what looks like this can mean. What secret touches can lead to, at least he knows what’s whispered about behind fans and hands, always out of earshot of polite conversation. It’s just hard for Harry to notice anyone else’s attention when he’s always looking around for Louis’. Harry constantly wants it, craves even the slightest favoritism from their leader. And yet, every time Harry feels it – feels the warm sunshine of Louis’ gaze turned toward him – it’s always followed up by him crowing or running off or starting a new game with the boys. It never lasts.
“And what happy times were we discussing?” Luke asks, his cool finger circling around Harry’s ankle bone. He’s got this crooked grin on his face, head tilted back so the fire casts shadows onto the sharp outline of his jaw.
“Mate,” Oli murmurs in a low voice, his brow pinched together, eyes trained just behind where Harry and Luke are, but before he can say more, Liam is interrupting.
“Is Harry telling stories about him attending a ball?”
“A ball?” That seems to gain the room’s attention as the boys glance around at one another. Most of them don’t even really remember what a ball is, though they know it’s important.
“Oi, don’t. It wasn’t a ball.” Harry rolls his eyes, using his teeth to cut the end of his thread.
“It certainly was a ball.” Niall, unhelpfully, turns his head up to grin at Harry. “Come on, H. It was! You know it was.”
“Had an escort and everything,” Liam adds matter-of-fact, nodding his head. “Saw it with my own eyes. Collin McCreedy. Came to call on Harry as a suitor at the orphanage.”
“Liam!” Harry cries, mouth left open in disbelief. It was a long time ago, back when Harry was shorter with curls that just barely cupped his ears. “You bite your tongue. Collin wasn’t my suitor. He was just a friend.”
“You’re the one who said he was sweet on you.” Liam shrugs. He’s liking the attention the story is getting him, the other boys shifting their eyes between the two, captivated. “Brought you that little bouquet of flowers too. Little daisies, right?”
“What’s a suitor?” Jaime asks, props his chin up on his hand, rolls over onto his side. He’s got the soft curved face of a boy still clinging very much to his childhood.
“Someone who wanted to keep Harry,” Luke answers before Harry gets the chance, his hand now still, fingers wrapped tight around his ankle bone so his thumb caresses over the very beginning of Harry’s calf. “Nice fellow, I assume? Easy on the eyes? What did he look like?”
“I’m not telling you.” Sputtering on a scoff, Harry shakes his head in disbelief. “I don’t even really remember.”
“Is that who your hidden kiss belongs to then?” Calvin sits up from his spot, hands wrapped up in the edge of his long shirt. He’s still dripping wet. “This Collin guy? That’s who it’s for?”
“What hidden kiss?” Niall whips his head around, eyes gone wide and betrayed as he glares up at Harry. “You said you haven’t–“
“There. In his cheeks.” Calvin’s boney finger points out, motioning in a small circle. “Can’t you see them? Those little dents. That’s where he keeps his hidden kiss.”
“Ohh,” Jamie, Nizam, and Stan chorus together like they understand.
“What? What do you mean?” Harry reaches up, presses his fingers into his cheeks, right over where his dimples are.
“Your hidden kiss. Me mum had one, or at least, I think she did?” Calvin cocks his head to the side a bit, chewing on his bottom lip. “Yours must be very, very special, though, ‘cause you’ve got two. Very powerful.”
“Harry’s hidden kiss,” Stan sighs in awe, eyes gone wide. “‘Tis a sign. Must be magic then, eh?”
“It’s not a hidden anything.” Heat blossoms in the apples of Harry’s cheeks, down over his nose. He can feel all the eyes on him, staring, judging, cataloging the curves of his face. He feels uncomfortable, too warm and too seen.
“S’not a bad thing. A hidden kiss is very special. Only one person in the whole world is who it’s for.” Calvin continues on, shrugging a thin shoulder, nudging his elbow into Liam. “So does it belong to this Collin guy?”
“I don’t–“ Harry starts to shake his head, glancing around the room. Even Niall looks at him differently, though, brow pitched together, confused.
“Maybe Harry doesn’t know.” Stan offers with a placating shrug, hands upon either side. “How could you know if you didn’t know, you know?”
“What?” Nizam’s face scrunches in confusion, shaking his head at the other boy.
“Or maybe,” Luke sings, reaching out to wrap one of Harry’s curls around his finger. “Maybe Harry doesn’t know because he hasn’t been kissed.”
“You don’t even know what that is,” Calvin scoffs loudly, rolling his eyes. “Piss off.”
“You fucking wanker. I do! I do remember.” Luke looks angry, leaning forward with Harry’s feet still tucked into his lap. He’s about to say more, having to raise his voice when the other boys start laughing, but it’s cut short as a shadow falls across them, a figure cut out before the fire.
“It’s late. What are you all doing awake?”
Louis’ voice is clipped, a cold sort of dread coming in like a winter breeze as he folds his hands before him, palms pressed tight. Even Harry, who had been trying to hide in his mending again, sits up a little straighter, eyes gone wide. If Neverland reflects its creator’s moods, it seems that everything has gone still, quiet, not even the fire daring to crackle or pop.
“We were just–“ Calvin starts, hesitating as Louis’ gaze turns toward him, raising a single eyebrow. He looks different tonight, more pronounced, angles of his sharp face cut into relief.
“I know what you were fucking doing. And I said it was late.” Louis shifts on his heels, the edges of his shoulders coming out of the darkness. There is a large gash on his shoulder, a thin cut that looks like the end of a blade got him, dripping blood down his ribs. “Go to bed. Now.”
The boys all shuffle to their feet, quick to not disobey and have Louis' anger turned toward them. It’s not without side glances, though, barely hissed words at one another as they trip to get up toward the rooms above and away from the hearth. This is not a game they’re necessarily familiar with. They’re used to Louis’ temper, his quick words, his commands for them to follow, but this feels particularly intense this evening. Maybe it’s by the way Louis’ chest is just slightly heaving from barely contained anger or it’s the way that Harry doesn’t move, just pulls his legs toward his chest. It's not a group fight. It's one between Mum and Dad.
“I tried to warn you,” Oli mutters as he shoves by the couch, head tilted down toward Luke who is getting to his feet. “He was there the whole time. He saw you.”
“So? Maybe he shouldn’t spend all his free time fighting with that dirty pirate and should be home instead. He’s not even mad at me, should be mad at himself,” Luke hisses back, shuffling around the stack of mending and giving a small nod to Harry. “Night, Mum.”
All the boys seem to repeat it, though carefully and from a distance, until finally they’re all stowed away. Hidden behind curtains and into bedrooms until all that is left is Louis standing guard before the fire and Harry with his legs folded close, a shirt half sewn now folded on the basket of clothes at his feet. It feels like there should be a clock on the mantel, ticking loudly to fill the void, but all that is up there is a collection of odd-shaped toys, a small forgotten wooden sword, and a large goblet overflowing with honeysuckle petals.
"You're bleeding," Harry finally breaks the silence, talking around where his two fingers have taken to pulling on his lip. "I could help–"
"What were you talking about?" Louis turns slightly, gives his full attention to Harry. With him standing, he towers over Harry's curled-up body, sending him a cool look down the length of his nose. "You lie to me but you tell the boys the truth?"
"Lie to you? How did I lie to you?" Harry genuinely doesn't know what Louis is referring to. He wasn't even part of the conversation, not really, was more just the subject than a participant.
"That other boy, Collin." Louis spits the word in disgust, lips rolled back. "Is that who you want then? Want a prince to take you away to some ball?"
"Louis, please. It was a long time ago. And things out there, in the other place, it's different." Harry raises his hands, a cold sort of dread building in his gut. He doesn't want to be proven right, not about this, not when this world is supposed to be so accepting, so free.
"What did he look like? Was he clever and brave then?" Looming closer, Louis runs a hand through his hair, snags his finger on his long earring. The scrap of green ribbon is still in the front, clasped there like a beacon, a sigil. "What sort of games did you play, hm? Nothing you've played here, I presume."
"You don't know what you're saying." Harry shakes his head, trying to come up with the right words. There doesn't seem to be anything to say, though, Louis fuming above him, spitting accusations that teeter between juvenile naivety and cruel lashing.
"I want to know. How did he win it? What were the rules?" Louis raises an eyebrow, haughty and snide. "You must have liked him a great deal to be telling my Lost Boys about him."
"Louis, please. I don't even remember what Collin looked like, not really." Harry gets his legs under him, kneeling up on the couch with his hand outstretched. "Will you please just let me bandage you up? You're bleeding a lot."
"You can't even tell the truth. Always weaving your stories." Louis scoffs roughly, shaking his head as his feet lift off the beaten earth. He hovers there for a moment, wild and untamable, a king in his own land. Harry can do nothing but stare with an open mouth. "That's what you do best, though, isn't it, Harry? Tell stories."
With that, Louis flips around and zooms toward the top of the tree. It's powerful enough that the curtains over the bedroom nooks quiver, dust kicking up from the shelves and random things hanging from the branches. Harry is quick to get to his feet, scrambling to get away from the hearth and toward the center of the Tree House, but by the time he's there, the leaves in the canopy room are barely shaking from where Louis must have broken through.
"Fuck."
Harry hisses through his teeth, his hands ending up in his curls to tug on them. It makes his scalp burn, eyes stinging, as he looks around the room. It's a cruel way to get out of an argument, childish and stupid, and Harry stomps his foot into the ground hard enough that a small cloud of dust comes up around his heel.
"Louis!" Closing his eyes, Harry tries to think of happy thoughts, anything to lift him off the ground, but he can't seem to focus. Everything feels so hot and festering and angry for no reason. And every time Harry tries to think of anything else, he flashes back to that cold attic room, the lopsided bed, the heavy footfalls of Mr. Corden coming up the stairs.
"You git!" Harry shouts, doesn't care who hears him. It's not like the Lost Boys are even sleeping. He's pretty sure he just saw Calvin and Luke with their faces peeking out of their curtains. "You can't just run away from me! I don't even understand why you're mad."
Silence, heavy and abated, not even the wind outside seems to permeate it. Tears flood Harry's eyes, angry and bitter. He suddenly doesn't want to be here. He wants to be away, far away, maybe back in the lagoon where the mermaids are or further out. Maybe he can find another tree to stay in, away from everyone else, a little house where Harry can carve a life for himself without Louis and his bright eyes and the gaggle of boys all waiting to see what will happen.
"You're a miserable coward," Harry sniffles, turning sharply on his heel and heading toward the tunnel entrance. He'll find somewhere else to be tonight. Except, before he can even make it to the door, a warm hand is wrapping around his wrist while an arm goes to his waist.
"I'm not a fucking coward," Louis hisses into his ear, still angry but cautious enough he makes sure he has a good grip before he shoves off again.
The Tree House turns into a blur, washed in bright colors and smeared faces until suddenly they're breaking through the foliage and into the canopy room. Harry braces himself for the impact, expecting Louis to launch him against one of the branches, but instead, Louis tosses him gently toward the bed. Harry lands among the furs and blankets with a soft grunt, already pushing himself up to sit when Louis lands on the makeshift floor.
"I'm not a coward. You want to know why I'm angry?" Louis asks, hands back on his hips, feet wide apart. He's playing the part again – a king in command – but Harry can see his wide eyes, his tension in his neck. "You lied to me. You told me you wanted to be here, but you don't!"
"What? No!" Harry gasps, scrambling up to stand, legs a little wobbly from the change in setting. "Louis, you can't think that. I've told you how wonderful it is here. How happy I am."
"Then why are you thinking about the other place?" Louis accuses, leaning forward and narrowing his eyes. "Other boys?"
Oh.
It hits Harry then, so potent that he can barely breathe from the realization of it all. No one on Neverland has ever thought to compete with Louis. No one has even come close to comparing to the brilliant, clever mastermind of this fantasy world. Louis has never been second best, ego can't even allow him to think of it. And somehow, some way, he's got it twisted in his mind that anyone stands before him in Harry's eyes.
“Louis, you must know,” Harry murmurs, isn’t even sure how he’s supposed to say this. “You must know. None of that matters now. My life before, it doesn’t.”
“Why?” Louis eyes him skeptically, raises an eyebrow with a twisted up mouth. He looks young like that, still teetering on the edge of boyhood.
“Because you’re here.” Cocking his head to the side, Harry spreads his hands out before him. "Because you took me away from where it was bad. And now we're here. You saved me."
It isn't exactly what Harry wants to say, feels that hidden emotion bubbling in his chest, but it's close enough to most of the truth. No one has ever come close, ever been as wonderful and clever and beautiful as Louis has. Even before, when he just existed in between pages of a nursery book, he was always more than those around Harry. A dreamer and a dream.
"What about that other boy? Hm?" Louis floats closer, crowds in on Harry's space like he's searching for a hint of a lie, some hidden plot. "Your prince, right?"
"No. It wasn't like that." Harry shakes his head, face flushing at the very thought. It wasn't. Collin had asked Harry out of charity, at the thought he might be able to get away with something in secret that he wouldn't have been allowed in the light. Harry had learned that on the carriage ride over when a gloved hand had landed on his knee. "I didn't like the game he was playing."
"No?" Louis' brow furrows, boldly reaching up and hooking a hand against Harry's jaw. He presses his thumb into one of Harry's dimples, fits it there like it's always been meant to, like they fill in each other's empty spaces. "And what about these? Your hidden kiss?"
"I don't–" Harry goes to protest but Louis gets impossibly closer, so close that his breath is honey-sweet on Harry's face, his eyes gleaming blue in the dim light.
"I want it."
Harry flits his gaze over to the ribbon hanging from Louis' ear, the innocence of it all seeming boyish and pure in comparison to the way Harry's body has turned to fire. It's a slow inferno, molten and hot as it makes its way up his spine, flushing on his face. Louis doesn't seem that naïve now, not with the way he tugs Harry's jaw a little, getting his attention.
"Not that. I remember what kisses are. And I want yours."
"You can't have it," Harry speaks before he knows what he's saying, floundering around the words. "I don't even know who it’s for."
Louis seems to mull over the words, chewing on them as he continues to stare at Harry. He's still bleeding, still wounded, and Harry wants nothing more than to wrap him in linen, to take care of him. Louis seems keen to finish this conversation, though, because a cocky sort of smirk spreads over his mouth and he leans in closer, nose brushing against Harry's.
"We could make-believe. A game, yes?"
"A kissing game?" Harry can feel himself leaning into it, hands careful when they come up to touch Louis' sides, trace along his ribs to his back.
"Yes, a secret game, just for us." Louis grins then, boyish and eager, so close he's practically leaning into Harry, pushing him back against the bed. "I'll go first–"
“No.”
Bravely, Harry pushes his palms into Louis’ stomach, using the momentum of him floating to push him back a few yards. It gives them enough space that Harry can level Louis with a furrowed brow, frown pulling down his pink mouth.
“I won’t play a single game with you until you let me bandage you up.”
“But I said–“ Louis goes to protest, drawing himself up tall but Harry won’t budge.
“No. I won’t do it. Either let me play nurse first or I’ll make you do chores in the morning.” Harry reaches for the side of the bed where a basket has seemingly randomly appeared, filled to the brim with long strips of cloth and bottles of what looks like antiseptic.
"You can't do that. Mums don't boss Dads around." Louis' mouth twists up in a pout, eyes big and round, but Harry ignores him with a trembling bottom lip of his own.
"My game first."
In a great sign of surrender and a loud sigh to boot, Louis drops his heels to the leaf floor and rolls his eyes. It must be a first for him as he motions his hand in a quick roll, prodding Harry to get along with it. Louis isn't the best at taking turns, doesn't even know what it means to lose a game. Anytime he's ever gotten close, the others will change the rules in order to make Louis win.
- - -
Now, though, he lets Harry's soft hands on his arm guide him forward, gently pushing him down to the side on the edge of the bed as Harry kneels before him. He has half a mind to nestle a nurse's cap in all those curls, but Louis is afraid it would block his face, hide away Harry's shining green eyes as he works a wet cloth over his shoulder.
"Who cut you?" Harry murmurs, working diligently but carefully, trying not to agitate the wound more. It's not a deep cut, but it's long and it wraps close to Louis' armpit, the skin tender there.
"Caught meself on a tree. Clumsy and all that," Louis answers, fiddling with the bead piping along one of the shawls beneath him. It’s a pretty lilac color embroidered with large lotus flowers. Harry glances at him, a little wrinkle between his eyebrows, but he keeps working.
"You should be more careful. Think you gave the lads downstairs a fright." Digging into his basket, Harry pulls out a small, folded bit of cloth, turning the contents of one of the bottles over onto it. It smells sharp, acidic and cloves, and it stains the white fabric a dull shade of brown.
"Bit of a scratch, really." Louis shrugs, tries not to wiggle his arm like it doesn't hurt but Harry reaches forward, palm warm on his chest.
"Don't. You'll reopen it." It feels oddly soothing to have Harry's skin on his own, to feel them connected in a way that is intentionally soft, gentle caress as Harry's fingertips trace over the very edge of Louis' collarbones. Louis isn’t a stranger to physical affection – he gets slaps on the shoulder from the boys, jovial hugs after a hard game, or even the occasional head on his shoulder. They’re a tactile lot, the lads, and Louis thrives off having them close. This feels different, though, more potent, a bit risky with the way his heart is pounding just under Harry’s palm.
"I’m going to have to clean it out. This may sting a little,” Harry whispers, looking up at Louis through his eyelashes. With the way the moonlight is peeking very dimly through the leaves, Harry could be mistaken for a fae. He's all sharp angles and beauty and Louis goes to say something cocky, brush it off, but then the little square is coming down on the cut and sharp pain radiates out of his shoulder.
"Fuck!" He cries, trying to wrench away, but Harry keeps his hold on him, holding him close.
"I know. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It's alright," Harry soothes, wiping the cleanser along the wound followed by his cool breath blowing over it. "Almost done, love. I promise."
Louis doesn't think. He's hurting and Harry is soft against him, smells like the ocean breeze and the Tree House fire and Neverland. He's wrapped up in threads woven by mermaids and he's got starlight caught in his hair. And Louis has wanted and been given many things in his life, but this, he feels like he has to take it himself.
He cups Harry's face between his hands, pulls him up and meets him halfway until suddenly their lips are pressed tightly together. It's a gentle sort of caress, like candle wax slowly melting into one another. Harry's hands, caught in midair, sink to Louis' thighs, his back arching to get closer as Louis' fingers trail back to wrap around the soft silk of his curls.
Louis could do this forever. He thinks this might be his favorite game of all time. Harry is so pliant against him, soft and open. It’s sweeter than nectar, better than sunlight after a stormy day. It’s all heat and pressure and Louis wants to keep going forever. Harry’s lips shifting under his, one press, again and again and again until he falls back with a little, startled gasp.
"Not fair. We were playing my game." Harry doesn't whine as much as pout, his bottom lip curling forward only for Louis to lean in again, kissing him right over it. He adds a little bite, too, just a nip that has Harry wiggling on his knees, a sharp little gasp in the back of his throat.
"Oops," he whispers, breathing the words into Harry’s panting mouth. “Guess it’s my turn.”
Louis leans back just far enough that he can rest his forehead on Harry's, noses nuzzling together in a short bunny kiss. It fills his stomach up with fluttering lights, all warm and happy, the type that makes Louis lean back in for one more kiss. Harry lets him, lets it simmer for a long time, before he pulls back with a little frown.
“You cheated. I haven’t finished.” He wipes the antiseptic once more on Louis’ cut, enticing a short hiss from between his teeth. “I know. I know it hurts. Almost done.”
“It’s fine.” Louis’ jaw flexes, gritting against the dull throbbing. It’s a bit overshadowed by his lips still tingling from Harry’s slow kisses, his hands on Louis’ bare skin. It’s all he can seem to focus on, nearly missing Harry’s next words, murmured the way they are.
“Yes, I know. You’re very brave. I just need to take care of you.” Pushing his hands into the basket, Harry tugs out a strip of cloth and another square, pushing it up against the wound. “Just a moment longer, I promise.”
It burns a bit, the wound antagonized, but Harry's hands are gentle as he begins to wrap the other fabric on top. He loops it over Louis' side, under his arm, careful not to tie it too tight – just enough to keep it secure. Louis doesn't have the heart to tell Harry it'll be healed by tomorrow. Nothing painful lingers in Neverland. Nothing that Louis has seen.
When he's done and satisfied, Harry leans in for one last step: planting a soft kiss just on top of the thick gauze pad. Louis shouldn't be able to feel it, but it tingles through him, radiates warmth into his shoulder and chest.
"There you are." Murmuring, Harry falls back on his heels with a small smile, hands clasped in his lap. "All better."
"Thank you," Louis says and he means it, rotating his arm gingerly. It's still tender but it feels better than it had downstairs, festering and bleeding. "How did you learn to do this?"
"Oh. I've had a lot of practice." Harry shrugs a little, his thumb ghosting over the knuckles on his other hand.
"Well, it's brilliant." Louis kicks off the bed, lets himself float up into the air, stretched out on his stomach. It’s easy to lounge around like this, nothing weighing him down, only the comfort of his own body suspended in air. Everything just conforms to Louis.
“Thank you.”
Tucking his hair behind his ear, curls spilling out around his shoulders, Harry gets to his feet, busying himself with putting the basket to the side and smoothing out the blankets. He’s made it his room – flower crowns left to bloom in the leaves above the bed, little candles tucked into safe alcoves. Louis doesn’t get out of his way, just hovers there observing him, categorizing the way Harry is. He likes studying him, watching the moonlight on his hair, the curves of his body under the dress. Louis can still taste him on his lips, lingering like sugar, and he wants to play that game again.
Harry’s dress is a little wrinkled from playing today and he goes to the alcove of bark in the corner to retrieve his nightshirt from the other land. It’s beyond repair now, tattered and worn on the hem, a small hole in the cuff on the sleeve. Louis doesn’t know why he keeps it. There is a whole chest of clothes he could choose from downstairs, anything he wants he just has to imagine and it’ll be his. Yet, Harry never does.
“Darling, don’t wear that.” Louis frowns, flying closer to pluck the threadbare shirt out of his hold. He’s sure if he grabs it too roughly, it’ll all fall apart.
“But why?” Bottom lip just barely poking out, Harry stares up at Louis confused. “I can’t sleep in my dress. It’s so nice.”
“You’re not sleeping in rags either.”
Rolling his eyes, Louis reaches up into the leaves, fiddling around a little before he tugs something free. It’s a little faded, just around the edges of the cuffs, but Louis holds the jumper to his chest before thrusting it out. The thread is a bright, cheerful red with white stitching, embroidered twenty-eight just to the top corner.
“Here.”
“What is this?” Harry asks, gently taking it from Louis’ outstretched hold. He looks inside, sees the small white tag with the initials ‘L.T.’ embroidered in gold. It looks handmade, well-worn and loved. It feels like from another time, before all this, that maybe Louis always had it. But when Harry looks up at Louis to ask about it, he’s not watching. Instead, Louis is diligently staring at the small patch of moon between the leaves.
“Louis,” Harry murmurs, sure if he speaks too loudly it will spook the other boy. “This is–“
“Just something better. Nice for you.” Louis reaches up, fiddling with the hair at his nape, reaching up to adjust his earring. “It’s not, like, a mermaid dress or anything.”
“Was this yours?” Holding it closer, Harry presses his nose against the collar. It smells like sunshine, like flower fields and the sky-blue ocean. Like Neverland living inside of it.
“What I had when I came here.” Louis huffs a bit, patience clearly gone. “Put it on then, yeah? And to bed with you. I want to play the kissing game before you go to sleep.”
“The kissing game?” Harry lets out a soft giggle, leaning up on his toes so he can reach to plant a soft kiss to Louis ’stubbled cheek. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, yeah. On with it, eh? I’m getting bored already.”
Letting out a pleased hum, Harry turns his back toward Louis as he starts to fiddle with the clasp on the side of his dress. Louis does this sometimes – hurries things along, pushes so he won’t have to talk about things or face them straight on. Harry has come to know which fires to stoke and which ones he lets simmer instead, slowly filling him up with butterflies and light.
Peeking out of the corner of his eye, Louis lets himself watch when he knows he really shouldn’t. It feels different with Harry, different from when the other lads and Louis will go swimming in one of the ponds in the forest. The blue gauzy fabric slips down Harry’s shoulders, over the curve of his arms and chest, revealing his smooth back, the soft curve of his waist. He’s like a conch shell – pale and alabaster – all exquisite in the way he moves and the delicate lines of his body. The skirt gets caught just around his hips but Harry wiggles a little and it falls to the canopy floor. Louis looks away then, can’t peek at the pale fabric hiding away Harry’s intimate parts.
Finally, they both collapse back into the bed. It feels natural for Louis to pull Harry to him, tug him across the pile of cushions and blankets until they’re pressed close, looping a finger through his pearl necklace to keep him near. This way, it’s easy for Louis to wrap his arms around Harry, caress his fingers along his spine, the soft fabric of the jumper. They’re oppositely undressed – Louis’ chest and Harry’s legs bare – so they curve around one another, tangle up until there isn’t much space between them for anything.
“I’m sorry I shouted at you,” Louis whispers in the dark now, when he can barely make out the profile of Harry’s face. It feels important for him to say it, like Harry deserves it.
“You were angry.” Gently, Harry brushes his fingers through Louis’ hair, tracing along his temple, through the wild unkempt curls at his nape. "You only heard half the conversation."
“Doesn’t give me an excuse to act like an arse.” Pressing closer, Louis nuzzles his nose against Harry’s, breathes in his slow exhales. He’s never wanted to be like this with anyone. Didn’t know he could even have this, didn’t know he could dream it up. He’s not even sure he could have dreamed of Harry. It feels like a divine blessing more than anything, beyond any magic Louis has ever been privy to.
“I didn’t kiss him,” Harry whispers, fingers tangling around the long strands of Louis’ earring, caressing over the shell of his ear. “I’ve never. With anyone. Just you.”
“Me neither.” Louis meets Harry’s eyes – blue on green – and it feels like a shot in the dark.
This time it's different, more gentle when they come together. Louis cradles Harry like he's fragile, like he's made of soft petals and summer rain. Not because he thinks him weak, just because Louis hasn't known much kindness in his life, not the type that treats important things delicately. Louis is wild fire and summer heat and the rushing of adrenaline. There is nothing he can't concur. No challenge he can't master. He is king over all.
But Harry unfurls before him like the cool breeze. He's everywhere at once, curved lines and water lilies. It's no wonder the mermaids are in love with him, moonbeam personified. Louis kisses and kisses and drinks from his mouth, unsure if he's ever going to be quenched of his thirst. Isn't sure the game will ever end, if he ever wants it to.
"Lou," Harry murmurs, leaning back just far enough to separate their lips. In the dark, his eyes gleam a hazy sort of green. "Will you tell me who hurt you?"
He ghosts his fingertips down the curve of Louis' shoulder, over where the bandage is held in place. It still hurts a little but Louis is careful not to flinch under the touch. He reaches for Harry's hand instead, kisses over his fingertips, his knuckles, his wrist.
"It doesn't matter, love. Just a mistake, is all." Craning his head up, Louis kisses the space between Harry's eyebrows. "Sleep now, darling. It's late and the boys will be up soon."
"But–" Harry tries to protest but Louis leans into the magic, letting it course through him, the soft chimes of a pan flute whispering through the leaves above them.
"Won't send you to dreamland with thoughts of a nightmare," Louis whispers, strokes over Harry's eyelids until they fall closed and he has but no choice to slip deep into slumber.
- - -
“The name of the game is Prey.”
Luke shifts his head from side to side, cracking his neck audibly and rolling back his broad shoulders. The other boys around him are restless, shifting on their feet, twisting from side to side. They know how to play this game, even though Luke seems to think he needs to go over the rules again. It’s been a long time, though, since they’ve been given permission to play it. With a knowing smirk, Luke waits until Louis gives his nod of approval before launching into it.
“Two teams – the Predators and the Prey. Predators chase and prey have to get to the safe spot before they’re captured. If all the Prey get caught, the Predators win.” Luke’s grin turns sharp, teeth glinting a little as he looks around the huddle of boys. “Got it?”
“But how will we know who is who?” Liam asks, craning his head over the top of Jaime’s to see better.
“Well, mate, that is what this is for.” Luke raises his arm. Clutched in his fist is a small velvet bag, no bigger than his palm, the blue faded from use. He shakes it, rattling the bag so the stones inside of it click together loudly. “We’ll do a draw. Line up, then.”
“If we’re Predators, how do we capture our Prey?” Stan pushes forward, meaning to reach for the bag, but Louis raises an eyebrow at him, stepping first. Louis is always first. Always.
“Any means necessary.” Luke makes a great show of opening the bag, all of the boys holding their breath as Louis pulls out the first stone. It’s his choice that will determine how the game is played, really. If he’s Prey, there will be cunning and clever tricks to get the team out of harm's way. But if he chooses Predator, well, it’s a big opposite really.
“Wolf.”
Louis flips the small stone over, showing the crudely engraved word over the back. The cheers from the boys are speckled with whoops and hollers, a few fists raised in triumph. So, the game will be rough then, brutal and sharp. No one has ever gotten gravely injured in a game of Prey but they’ve come close before. It’s just that there aren’t many rules, especially the longer they play, and nowhere on the island is technically off-limits.
The realization of Louis’ draw seems to only spur the others on as they all clamber forward to pull out their own animal of choice, showing the group at large. At the end of it, the Predator team is made up of Luke as a bear, Nizam as a coyote, Liam as a falcon, and Jaime as a boar with Louis as the wolf. On the Prey side, it’s Oli as a deer, Niall as a chipmunk, Calvin as a field mouse, and Stan as a raccoon. Until finally, all that is left is Harry, standing at the very end of the line.
“Alright, darling.” Luke rustles the bag again, only one stone inside to roll softly against the velvet. “Harry, your turn.”
“You already know what it’s going to be, though.” Sending a glance from Luke to Louis, Harry shifts around, his feet digging into the soft grass beneath him. He’s nervous. He’s not used to playing with them like this. Sure, Harry is always up for a game of swords or a quick hide and seek, but this feels different. Feels charged. Reassuringly, Louis flashes him a little grin, just the corner of his mouth raised.
“Yes, but you have to draw. It’s the rules.”
Stepping forward, Luke blocks the exchange between the other two boys, crowding in on Harry, pressing in. This close, the few inches Luke has on Harry feel significant, staring down at him with his full mouth pulled into a grin. Harry watches his dark gaze shifting between Harry’s eyes and his lips, along his throat. Luke is blatant about it, not caring that the other boys are watching them, not caring that Louis is watching them.
“Don’t be frightened.” Murmuring with tone turned deep, Luke reaches up his free hand to brush against an errant curl on Harry’s shoulder. “It’s just a game.”
“I’m not afraid of anything,” Harry answers, and doesn't have to see Louis to know he’s grinning with pride at the blatant show of bravery. But then Luke is pushing the bag closer to him and Harry has no choice, dips his hand into the bag, wrapping his fingers around the smooth stone. He can tell from the touch what the letters spell, startling just slightly when Luke lowers the bag, uses the momentum to lean in, face close enough the word is exhaled across Harry’s cheek.
“Rabbit.”
Warm lips touch the edge of Harry’s jaw, just under his ear, and something like ice slides down his back making him shiver. He wants to pull back, wants to recoil, but Luke’s body curves against him, warm lines of strong muscle under his flimsy shirt. Harry can feel himself leaning into it, even as his face burns, confused at the attention, confused at the fact that the rest of the boys seem to have become frozen in place.
“Are you ready to run?” Luke whispers, nudges his nose against Harry’s cheek.
“Luke!”
Louis’ voice booms in the silent clearing, sharp and high, loud enough the leaves seem to shake around them. Harry only has time to barely flutter his eyes open, guilt coiling in his stomach at Louis' expression. His eyes are gleaming, gaze turned sharp with teeth gnashing tightly together. There is the static of magic around him, electric and sizzling, but Luke only falls back with an eye roll and a cocky smirk.
“Sorry, boss.” He doesn’t look that apologetic, swaggering back to stand with Calvin and Jaime, earning him a nudge with their elbows. Harry doesn’t watch him, turns his attention back to the pale white stone clutched in his hand. Whoever had it last must have smeared something on it because the side is a dull, rusty sort of brown.
Louis looks like he wants to say more, body dropping so his feet land heavily onto the ground, hands pressed tight before him. He so rarely isn’t floating that it feels significant, especially when he reaches out and snatches another bag straight from Oli’s grasp, yanking the top of it open.
"Get your gear, mates. Game starts in a few."
Inside seems to be the parts of the costume for the animals they all chose. Louis plunges his hand inside and yanks out a pelt of gray fur that he throws over his shoulder before reaching back in and pulling out a pair of ears, white fur and silk. Then, he takes the bottom of the bag in a tight fist and dumps it all over the forest floor.
"Hurry up!"
The boys descend on the pile, tugging out their own pelts, their ears, the tails. Louis doesn't bother with anything else, simply hops over the backs of Nizam and Niall, stepping up into Harry's space. He's got red spreading over the curve of his neck, a hot flush to his cheeks, and Harry does nothing but stand there, staring at him. This is Louis like Harry hasn't seen him often – furious and in charge but trying to tame it for his sake.
"Here, darling." Reaching up, Louis nestles the soft headband into Harry's curls, tucking the edge behind his ear. It's significantly more gentle than he just was with the other boys.
"Thank you." Fingertips raising to brush over the long curve of his rabbit ears, Harry nibbles on his bottom lip. He has the acute feeling like he should apologize but he's not sure what for. "Did you come up with this game? It seems sort of… dangerous?"
Busy tying the wolf cape around himself, Louis glances up from the leather strings in his hands, raising a brow. He seems to mull it over before answering quietly, muttering. "I didn't. But I was here when we did. It was a long time ago."
"Oh."
Harry wonders briefly if there is more to that. If there are things hiding in the history of Neverland, if Louis won't ever tell him. Harry may have the storybook, may know the tales and the adventures, but there are still moments he can't know. Sadness and horror that must have lingered here once, rearing their monstrous heads.
"Run fast, alright?" Louis pulls the hood up on his cloak, fixing the wolf snout over his forehead as he leans into Harry's space, reaching up a stray finger to brush it over his cheek. "Don't stop for anything. Promise?"
"I promise." Harry nods, mesmerized as Louis' knuckles brush his lips, down to touch his chin.
It seems to reassure Louis for whatever has him worried, falling back with a nod and shaking it off. With a loud crow of excitement, he takes his place among the other Predator team members, settling into the center, Luke on one side, Liam on the other. Harry settles between Oli and Jaime, reaching up to touch the ears one more time, feeling the downy fur give way between his fingertips. He wonders if this once had a cotton tail to go with it, if maybe it was lost over time, stained like the rock was.
"Alright, Prey! You have until the count of twenty-eight." Luke smirks wide, raising his hand. "And then you're ours!"
"You better run!" Jaime croons, his large boar tusks rocking back and forth as he moves about, eager and ready. "The beasts are hungry!"
"You'll have to catch us first." Oli throws up a vulgar signal with his hand, making Louis cackle, before fixing his small cap.
"Ready."
"Set."
"Go!"
Luke drops his arm, giving the signal, and immediately the boys scatter in different directions. Whereas the Predator team seems to not be able to stop themselves from letting out growls and calls and shouts of glee, the Prey move silently, quick and tactful through the underbrush.
Rounding a tree, Harry sprints up through a small gathering of ferns, into the small bushes surrounding a large fir. Adrenaline pounds in his veins, making his head throb as he tries to make it as far away from the clearing as possible, drawing the least amount of noise. He knows that Niall is somewhere near him, both of them heading in the same direction, but Harry isn't sure where the other boys are.
It's not like they haven't played tag or chase before. Of course they have, tumbling around and shouting in the Floral Fields or even in the orchard of fruit trees. This time, though, this feels different. Static electricity – the type before a storm – hangs heavy in the air. It's like all of Neverland is watching them, sensing danger, sensing something off.
He doesn't hear it but he knows the counting is over with the shift in the atmosphere. Harry cuts down through a short grove, dashing over a creek bed and up the other side, panting hard as he slips between the low branches of a willow tree. It gives him enough cover that he can catch his breath, reaching up to push the ears back into place. The fabric of his dress clings to his chest, his legs wet from the creek making the hem inch higher.
A scream goes up somewhere, shattering and high, and Harry flinches from the pitch of it. Someone has been caught or hurt or something. Something is happening. It’s the staggering knowledge that, although Neverland is a place of fantasy, of imagination, not everything is bright. They can’t have loyalty and friendship without rivalry and aggression. There are too many boys, too many hormones, all pounding and bright under the raging sun.
Between one ragged breath and the next, Harry has the sudden, sinking realization that the safe place has never been told to any of them. There is no way to win the game, not for the Prey, at least. No way to truly escape the Predators lest the boys – mainly Louis – get tired of it and call it off.
Peeking between the branches, Harry can tell by the position of the sun and also the leaning of the oak trees that he must be fairly close to the Tree House by now. Maybe just on the other edge of this small patch of saplings. If Harry can get home, maybe he can outsmart them, creep up into his room so he can't be found. It’s better to be clever than caught, he reasons.
He waits a second too long. A branch snaps nearby and Harry is out from under the willow with a half-clumsy sprint, all tangled up in his own body. His bare feet pound on the dirt ground, snagging on twigs and leaves as someone seems to notice him, footsteps crashing behind him. True to the animal he’s impersonating, Harry tries to jump and leap over the ground, breaking through the underbrush and young trees and out onto a field of long wheatgrass. It sways in the breeze but Harry doesn’t pay it any mind, dashing through the long strands of it even as it pulls on his legs, his dress.
He's close. He can see the other side of the clearing, knows if he can just get back into the shadows of the branches that he can lose his assailant. And for once, in this magical place that has always held such wonder, fear prickles at the back of Harry’s spine. It coils snake-like and sharp, digs into him, makes him falter, makes the branch under his foot trip him.
“Ha!”
A heavy weight slams into Harry’s back, hands rough on his waist, gripping him as they both go tumbling forward. There isn’t enough time for him to put his hands up, for him to try and brace himself. Harry crashes into the long grass with a cry, the body behind him following him down. Something cuts at his cheek, dirt digging into his legs as Harry scrambles, trying to get away. It’s no use, though, whoever it is has a pretty good hold on him, rough fingertips digging into his ribs, down over his sides, before they grasp at his hips, flipping Harry neatly over onto his back.
“Looks like I won, little rabbit.” Luke looms above him, the fur of his bear belt now matted with yellow pollen, bear head slipping back onto his crown. He smells like the forest, like pine needles and the thick stench of boyish sweat, heavy and coiling. He's nineteen and powerful in the way his body curves forward, rough and aggressive as he grins.
“Okay,” Harry wheezes, trying to take in a breath as he tucks his arms against his sides. He can feel that his skirt is pulled up around his waist, showing off what is below, the fabric there thin and indecent. He wants to cover himself, he wants to not be laid out like this. “Let me up.”
“No.” Luke’s fingers flex on Harry’s hips, shifting his weight above him. There is something almost feral about his gaze, sweeping over Harry. “I caught you.”
“So, you won.” Tension bleeds into Harry’s tone, using his hands to push himself up on his elbows, only for Luke's hands to push him back down into the grass “Now, let me up. I want to go home.”
"But I caught you,” Luke repeats, leans forward so he's up in Harry's face. "I won. And now you're mine."
"Luke–" Harry pushes forward again. He's strong in his own way, lithe and sharp edges, but Luke is positioned in a way that it's hard for Harry to even expand his lungs, let alone use his weight to push up. "Stop it. You won, okay? Louis is going to be mad that you aren't playing by the rules."
"What rules? There are no rules." Luke smirks, hooks his elbows into the dirt on either side of Harry's shoulders. "Louis won't care. He likes this game. He used to always play back when Roland was here."
"Roland?" Harry raises his eyebrows, squirming to get his heels into the dirt. He may be able to flip them if he gets enough traction under his bare feet.
"Oh. Louis hasn't told you." Wrapping a curl around his finger, Luke leans in, breath hot and rank against Harry's cheek. "He didn't mention it when you sneak off to play your special little games? I want to know what you play, Harry. What do Mum and Dad get up to when the children are all put to bed?"
"Get. Off." Harry's fear slowly melts into anger, digging his fingertips into Luke's ribs as he tries to get up, thrusts his hips forward, aims to dislodge them. "Now! Get off of me!"
“I said no–“
Luke never gets to finish his sentence. Something flies through the air with a shout and then suddenly Louis crashes into Luke's side so hard they nearly fling into the side of a tree left standing on the edge of the clearing. There is nothing friendly in this fight, all sharp words and fists being thrown, the cloud of pollen misting up from the grass and leaves around them.
As fast as it happens, though, it's suddenly over. Louis stands snarling and panting on one side, a ball of gleaming light glowing into his chest as Luke dry heaves to the side, joined a moment later by both Calvin and Oli. They're not the only ones who show up, though, Niall and Liam come crashing through the other side of the clearing with the other boys, frantic and big-eyed. Niall reaches Harry first who helps him tug down his dress, get to his feet.
"You fucking dickhead," Louis shouts even as Zayn presses his hands to his shoulders, black wings fluttering quickly behind him. “You absolute twat!”
"You chose the game! You wanted to play!" Luke's teeth are red with blood, a cut oozing on his lip.
"Not like this." Louis seethes, fists clenched at his sides. "I don't like it this way. We don't play rough like this anymore."
"Not after you kicked Roland out."
Luke accuses and the clearing goes quiet. The other boys don't really move, all lingering like deer ready to sprint at the first true sign of danger. Harry leans heavily into Niall's side, tries to keep his tears back, the little sobs that well up from the shouting, the anger, the way his dress is all dirty and there is blood on his face. He wants to rush forward, to get between them, but it doesn’t feel like he should. Like this is bigger than just some playground spat.
"We don't talk about that." It's Oli this time, turning sharply to stand with Louis, glaring over at Luke. "You know that."
"Of course not. Of course we don't." Luke rolls his eyes, cocky and sure of himself as he runs a hand through his damp hair. "I forgot we just do what Louis says, no questions asked."
“Did you hit your head? Is that why you’re spewing such shit?” Stan reaches up, touches Luke’s forehead only for the other boy to yank back.
“Oi, lads. Come on.” Nizam and Jaime trudge in from the trees, panting and winded, leaves caught in their hair. “If Louis says no, then it’s no. Why are we fighting?”
“No. I just don’t understand why we can’t talk about it. Why it’s some mystery.” Luke points a long finger at Louis, accusing and sharp. “We all know why you did it. But now you’re giving Harry all the same attention. Are you going to do the same?”
“That’s not fair. You don’t know the whole story,” Nizam tries to interject but Louis cuts him off, hands rubbing together before him as he steps forward.
“It’s none of your business what I do here.” He snarls the words out, voice gone sharp and high. “I brought you to this land. I made it from my very dreams and you’re going to throw it in my face? Demand things and tell me what to do? I don’t think so. Either you’re loyal or not.”
“You can’t even be honest!” Luke shouts, arms raised in frustration. “At the very least you can tell us why Harry is so fucking special. No one else goes to the top of the Tree House. No one else gets to play special games with you.”
"Watch your tone." Sure of his hold, Zayn cranes his head to the side, dark eyes narrowed. For as mortal and rugged the boys are, there is something otherworldly about Zayn. It comes in the crackling form of magic around him, his sharpened features, the black ivy growing in his hair today.
“Oh, of course. Get the fucking pixie to step in.” Luke rolls his eyes, a cocky lit to his voice. “I forgot about that little crush. Well, come on, Z, stick up for your little master. Spread your wings a bit for him like you always do.”
“Luke!” Calvin lands a punch so hard into Luke’s shoulder that the other boy nearly falls back, body swaying. “What the actual fuck?”
“I’m not going to tell you again to watch your fucking mouth.” Louis steps forward again, heels lifting off the ground as he’s ready to launch at Luke.
“Why is this happening? Why are you all fighting?” Liam looks around, lost and confused, his own animal cloak half slipping off his shoulder. “I thought we were supposed to think happy thoughts here. Play. Games. Not this.”
“We’ve been poisoned,” Zayn snarls, all teeth as his shoulders hunch against Louis. “You let nasty things crawl into your head. That’s why. Can’t see reason at all.”
"I'm–"
Harry doesn't want to see this fight happen anymore. Doesn't even know what happened to get them to this point. It's like one moment they were all a happy family and the next, they were at each other's throats – dangerous and snarling. A pack of wild dogs all descending upon one another.
"It’s okay, Louis. Just a bit dirty. I don't think Luke meant to be so mean," he tries to offer, helpful and light, pushing a hand through his matted curls. “Let’s not argue, please.”
Louis turns his head, seems to realize Harry is still standing there, mud smeared over his knees, down his calves to his bare feet. There is a long piece of wheat grass stuck in his curls, Harry anxiously tugging at the hem on his thigh, lifting and then smoothing it back down. The longer Louis stares, the more it feels like the other boys are focusing on him, noticing him, mouths stilled from their vicious lashing. Harry likes to think it’s because he’s got that maternal air about him, but he wonders if it has something to do with magic. If there is something else changing the situation from nasty to calm.
“Please, darling,” Harry murmurs, knows it’s important that he’s asking Louis, that he is automatically defaulting to their king.
It seems to break whatever tension remains as he instantly comes across the clearing toward Harry, brow furrowed, mouth puckered up in anger. He doesn't fly, just steps quickly, and his hands are gentle when they reach for Harry's face, cupping over his jaw, turning his face this way and that, examining him. Discontent and anger still bleed into his eyes, though, thumb brushing over the small cut high on Harry's cheek, reaching down to pull the sleeve of his dress back up on his shoulder.
"Are you alright, love?" Louis murmurs, soft and gentle, ignoring the way Niall is practically pressed between them.
"Just a little rough play, that's all." Harry ducks his head, can't seem to think with the way Louis is looking at him. He's afraid the other boys will notice, will be jealous that Harry has somehow managed to grab their leader's attention in a way that the others seem to have not. He doesn’t want to start on that again.
“Please, Lou, please end it,” Harry whispers, darts his eyes to the side for just a moment to see the rest of the boys staring at them. “We don’t have to fight like this anymore.”
They stare at each other, conversation held behind the slight movement of their eyes. Harry would never presume to know all the wonder and magic that goes on inside Louis’ lovely brain, but he knows this – knows how to ask for something that the other may give him, only if pleaded for the right way. It’s a game, it’s always a game, and Harry has been the first player for a while now. He knows that Louis will change it at will if given enough of a reason.
"We're leaving." Slipping his fingers between Harry's, Louis grips their hands together, turning to address the group at large. "Game is over. Go find something else to do."
"But Lou–" Calvin starts, immediately freezing when Louis sends him a narrow-eyed look. It doesn't need to be said. Their king has spoken and it will be done.
Louis doesn't even wait for a response before he's stalking away, using his grip on Harry's hand to pull him along. Harry only gets one glance over his shoulder, long enough to see the group watching them. Niall looks the most concerned, though there is a little furrow between Zayn’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows, Luke’s scowl giving way to a grimace. Harry can only look for a moment, watching the whispering start before he's guided beyond a cluster of trees and the pair of them disappear from sight.
The forest is buzzing with activity. Birds sing in the trees above them, a family of deer walk along the path to their right, the buck giving a small bow to Louis when he passes by. Even the chipmunks and squirrels playing in the underbrush turn to look up at them with dark, shiny little eyes. All of creation attuned to their maker, loving, fascinated. It feels like something out of a fairytale, and maybe it is, Harry muses, maybe all those stories and books don’t do it justice at all.
They walk for just a little while. Once the pair have gotten out of earshot of the boys, Louis slows down a little, walking beside Harry more than pulling him along. It seems now that they're alone, though, Louis doesn't have much to say, stepping over stones and twigs, gentle in his guiding. The fight is still simmering, still there, but it feels duller now the further and further they get away from the clearing and the boys. This is for them, their quiet time, Louis’ thumb tracing over Harry's knuckles as they break from the trees and into the small lagoon again.
"Fancy a swim?" The anger and tension from before seems to have been shrugged off entirely the moment Louis deposits his wolf cloak over the side of a large rock, his little belt and little dagger following.
"Now?" Harry asks, eying the small pool of water, so clear and blue he can see the rocks at the bottom. It's where the mermaids are, where their home is, but it seems all quiet now. Maybe they're out in the ocean. Harry can’t see them when he cranes his neck, tiptoeing up on a rock.
"Why not? You're covered in dirt. I'm sweaty. It's only midday." Louis shrugs, runs a hand through his hair, his earring glinting in the light. "Other game was shit. This one can be a new one."
"A new game?" Harry asks, watching from only a few meters away as Louis reaches for the front ties of his trousers, starting to tug on the rough cording. "Louis!"
"What?" Raising an eyebrow, Louis pauses for a moment, the front flaps of his pants now open. Harry's face turns to flames as his gaze shifts down, over the flat planes of Louis' abs, down below his navel where the skin is soft and thin, further where a crop of brown hair curls just behind the fabric.
"We– I– But–" Harry stammers, purposefully turning his head up to look at the sunny afternoon sky. "What are you doing?"
"Swimming?" Tone turned confused, Harry doesn't have to see Louis to know he's shrugging one shoulder. He probably is squinting up at him, too. "What? Did you not know that's what I meant?"
"But you're–" Manners aren't exactly common in Neverland. Not the way they were beaten into Harry in London. But still, this feels naughty. Like a game they both know they shouldn't be playing but are anyway. "Taking off your trousers.”
“Yes. To swim,” Louis repeats himself, scoffing out a laugh. “Why are you staring at the clouds?”
“Because you can’t just– We can’t just–“ Harry glances down again, cheeks hot as his eyes betray him, slipping down the cut of Louis’ jaw, over his neck, further onto his chest. His pants are still open, low on his hips now, tight over the tops of his thighs to keep them in place. “We’re outside. In the open. What if someone sees?”
“Sees us swimming?” Tossing his head back, Louis lets out his loud laugh. It seems to bounce around the trees, filling up the lagoon. “Darling, what are you so worried about? It’s just a swim. Take your dress off already. It’s hot out.”
“But we’re–“ Harry stares pointedly at a little cloud shaped roughly like a strawberry. “We're swimming naked?"
"How else? We can rinse out our clothes and let them dry over here." Nonchalant, Louis answers followed by the tell-tale sound of fabric hitting the ground. “Come on! Are you scared? Do you know how to swim?”
“Kind of.” Harry peeks down for just a moment, sees the smooth curve of Louis’ flank, his body turned toward the side as he peers into the water, and Harry snaps his gaze back up. “What if someone sees us?”
“Then they see us?” Louis’ laugh is loud, that sharp ha ha ha he seems to do when he’s entirely too amused. “It’s just your body, Harold. A body is a body is a body. We all have one.”
“But isn’t that–“ Harry doesn’t look, even if he wants to, keeps staring up at the same cloud hovering above them. It’s all he tries to focus on as there’s a loud crash of Louis hitting the water, droplets spraying up on Harry’s feet, over his legs. Not even a bird in the trees seems to stir, the crickets still loud around them. It seems that in all of Neverland, no one cares what the two of them are up to.
“Hazza, darling,” Louis coos and Harry has no choice but to glance down at him, face hot and feverish when Louis casually reaches up and runs a hand through his wet hair, brushing it from his face. He’s only got his shoulders out of the water but it’s the knowledge that there is more of him below that makes Harry squirm a little.
“It’s just a bit of swimming, love. I won’t let you drown.” Louis grins, all fond and soft around the edges and it makes Harry’s chest melt.
“Alright but–” Reaching for the small zip on the side of his dress, Harry tugs on the tab. “You have to close your eyes, no peeking.”
“Harry.” Rolling his eyes, Louis makes a point of raising his hands, placing his palms right before his vision. “S’alright. I won’t see you.”
Shyly, Harry turns around to put his back to Louis, tugging the zipper all the way down. It’s not that he thinks Louis will sneak a glance. He did himself, the image of Louis’ sharp hipbone down into his thigh now burned behind Harry’s eyes. It just feels very… mature. Good in a way that feels like syrup on his teeth, sweet and warm and as Harry drops the fabric to the ground, he glances over his shoulder. Louis is quick to put his hands back, faster than Harry probably would have been, but it still gave him away.
Turning back, face hot, Harry slowly sinks the tips of his fingers into the lace at his hips, pushing down the flimsy white fabric – the last of what was covering him. It’s nice to be open like this, unrestricted with the warm sun sliding over his bare skin, touching places it never has. Feels even better when Harry makes his way carefully over the rocks and then slips into the water with a small splash. It’s cooler than expected, spring warmed, and Harry shivers when he breaks the surface, flipping his hair out of his eyes.
“Not so bad, is it?” Louis asks, treading water just far enough away that there isn’t a chance he’ll brush up against Harry, like it’s purposeful. “Bit chilly but that’s alright.”
“Better than being tackled into the grass.” Lifting his mouth out of the water, Harry teases lightly, reaching up to brush his hand over his cheek. The cut there stings, still a thin line but smarting.
“He’s an arse.” Scowl pulling down at his soft mouth, Louis rolls his eyes a bit, annoyed still. “Doesn’t know when to quit. I have half a mind to make him sleep outside, you know?”
“Well." Shrugging a little, Harry floats his hand along the top of the water, watching it ripple around him. It’s so quiet here, like their own little oasis. "Seems like the whole game was off today."
"You think so?" Kicking his feet out, Louis floats up, his waist still below the surface. "Just a rough game, is all."
"I don't know. Felt like something was wrong." Harry lifts his gaze, watching Louis lounging in all the blue water. He'd seem entirely at ease if not for the tension in his shoulders, jaw clenched. "Is there something wrong, Lou? You can tell me."
"No." He's quick to answer, folding his arms over his chest. "What could be wrong in Neverland? Everything is perfect here."
It's the way he says it, tone turned sharp and scathing, like Louis is reciting some harsh barb that has been thrown at him before. It makes Harry wonder if it has always been this way here – if Louis has always been king, the land always warm and welcoming, or if the game they just played hinted at something else, something before. Harry isn't a stranger to the cruelty that comes from desperation, from change, from too many hands in the same basket.
"Hey."
Slipping through the water, Harry draws close enough that he can gently pry Louis' hand away from his bicep, lacing their fingers together slowly so that each point of contact feels purposeful, deliberate. It makes Louis open his eyes, crystal blue staring at Harry, rapt and fascinated when he brings their hands up, pressing a slow kiss over Louis' knuckles.
"You can tell me anything, you know that, Louis? I promise. Anything and I'll be here for you. No matter what. We can get through it."
It lingers in the sweet breeze between them, honey-thick and saccharin. Harry pours as much as he can into the words, hopes Louis knows, hopes he can remember what it feels like to have trust between two people. It must register a little because he pushes his legs down, stands up to crowd into Harry, his free arm wrapping tightly around his waist.
"I think I dreamt you," Louis whispers against Harry's lips, close enough he's barely left enough space between them to breathe. "Pulled you right out of here." He touches their fingers to his temple. "Right between wakefulness and sleep."
"Is that what you want?" Harry asks, his legs tangling with Louis', wrapping them up tight. It feels heady to have all their skin pressed against one another, chest to chest, hip to hip. "Do you want me to be your creation?"
"I want you to be mine," Louis confesses on an exhale, leans in to press a slow kiss to Harry's waiting lips. They’re beginning to taste like each other, no longer defined by separation but becoming one. "Can I have you?"
"I'm already yours." A noise, a high moan, slips from between Harry's lips as he presses even closer.
They lose the conversation then, dissolving into slow kisses instead. They take their time with them, mapping each other out, touching tongues between their lips before Louis becomes emboldened and presses inside. Harry can't seem to not respond to it, panting gently, legs slipping around Louis' waist. It sparks something up inside both of them, a different sort of heat that seems to grow the longer Harry squirms against Louis. It's liquid fire that burns down their spines, settles low in their groins.
Releasing his hand, Louis drags his palm down the smooth planes of Harry's back, down to the curve of his waist, tracing bone and the outline of his ribs. He vaguely remembers this – kissing, touching, wanting. Things he was never allowed as a boy but he still remembers the desire to have them. Like little fireflies kept blinking slowly in a jar, Louis has fleeting memories of a time before – seeing a boy on the street, remembers the curve of a cheekbone or the outline of lips. He's not sure it had felt like this, though, hinging dangerously close to addictively bad for the both of them, too caught up in the feeling to think ahead. To remember that things like this, they have repercussions.
"Harry." Louis gasps when he falls back to breathe, hand soft on Harry's jaw. "Darling."
“I know.” It feels like a confession, Harry’s thighs twitching around Louis’ waist, tightening until his ankles lock together. He’s so lovely, so pretty in the bright sunshine, rosy-cheeked and lipped, glistening from the water. “I just can’t help it. I want this, want you like this.“
“Feels good.” Mumbling, Louis leans back in, kisses over Harry’s swollen bottom lip, nipping at it with his teeth and then tugging. “You feel good. Always do, Harry. Like a dream. Like I pulled you out of my head.”
“Lou, Louis, darling,” Harry gasps, desperately clinging along Louis’ back, holding him close, needs to be even closer. How can there be any space between them? It feels impossible that they were ever meant to be apart in the beginning.
Boldy, Louis reaches a hand between them, slides his palm through the water and over the jumping planes of Harry’s stomach, pressing low just south of his navel. It feels deliriously good, Harry’s back arching into it, using the buoyancy of the water to propel him further into Louis’ arms. He can feel the long line of heat pressed into his thigh, a forbidden place that Harry has been told time and time again that it is wrong to touch, to think about.
“Is this alright?” Harry mumbles, fingers slipping over Louis’ shoulders, down along his sternum, deep into the water until he bumps up against his own thigh. “This game, it’s–“
“It’s not a game.”
Louis pulls back, just enough so he can make space between them, looks – for the first time ever – truly stoic. Like a somber sort of intensity has settled in on his gaze, lifting his hand to hold Harry’s face. It’s like the façade of boyhood has been stripped away, the innocence of not having to care. Louis locks his eyes on Harry’s and speaks sincerely, gently.
“I know that. I know what it is. Even if I forgot for a while. I know this means something. Between us, just the two of us.”
“Just the two of us.”
Fingertips cold and wet, Harry traces of Louis’ mouth, along his full bottom lip as he echoes the words. It feels like they’re on the cusp of something important, something secret and sacred and bigger than the two of them. And yet, it’s comforting to know that they’re in it together, laced tightly together, intertwined in the blue, blue water.
“Can I touch you?” Louis whispers, hand sliding down from Harry’s stomach to his hip, fingers hovering close to where Harry is hard, arched up toward his navel. “Here?”
It doesn’t feel like anything other than surrender, a weight so heavy finally slipping from Harry’s shoulders as he nods, feverish and high as he leans back in, sealing their lips together. The kiss this time is sloppy, needy as they cling to each other, sliding back until there is no hint of space between them. Louis keeps one hand low on Harry’s waist, keeps him steady as the other wiggles between them, cool fingers wrapped around where Harry is hard and twitching.
A moan spills out of Harry’s mouth, all wanton and brittle, half-muffled as his tongue slips along the front edge of Louis’ teeth. He can’t help the way his body shudders, feels lit up from the inside out, suddenly focused on the way Louis’ fingers tease over him, stroke up and then down, twisting just at the top to make Harry spill out that sound again, crying out.
“Feels good?” Louis asks, the hint of a smirk caught in the corner of his mouth. He’s entirely pleased with himself, twisting his wrist to entice another moan out of Harry.
“Yeah,” Harry gasps, teeth dragging along his bottom lip, nibbling at it as he rocks his hips forward. He lets his hands roam, sliding over the strong planes of Louis’ shoulders, down along his trim waist, over onto his chest that heaves a little as he pants, staring open-mouthed at Harry.
“Can I?” Murmuring, Harry’s fingers slip down along the cut of Louis’ hipbone, to where he is warm and firm against Harry’s thigh. “Can I make you feel good, too?”
Louis doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he reaches down with his free hand, letting go of Harry’s waist just long enough to take his hand and move them both over him. He’s so warm here, slick because of the water and the pearls coming from the tip and Louis squeezes their fingers together, gripping him firmly. Harry doesn’t have much experience – no experience, really – outside of the few times he’s had a quiet moment to himself, few and far between in the orphanage. But there is no Mr. Corden here with his cane and his harsh words. Here, Harry is free to give and receive pleasure, to feel divine.
“Lovely Harry. My lovely Harry,” Louis murmurs, panting breaths against Harry’s lips. They can’t seem to stop staring at each other, hands moving in time. Here, there is no time, no space, just them floating in the water, surrounded by magic and light.
“Don’t stop. Please.” Gasping wetly, Harry presses a kiss to Louis’ cheek, his jaw, his forehead. He wants to feel as close as he can, as near as possible. “Louis, oh, Lou. Please don’t.”
“I won’t. I’m here. We’re alright,” Louis soothes, hands speeding up.
They’re hurtling toward somewhere neither of them have ever been. Not with someone else. Here, where there is no one but them. They meet together again for a smeared kiss, a moan floating between them, a chorus of whines and soft whimpers. It’s all too much and too little and everything at once. A cosmos floating around them, gravity moving them and shifting all their atoms to align, to have one last burst before they both slip over the edge with a loud cry.
In the aftermath, there is only prolonged pleasure. Neither one of them want to let go, floating in the water, hands smoothing over slowly softening skin. And Louis’ tongue traces the roof of Harry’s mouth, can barely tell where his lips end and Harry’s begin, all wrapped up in the ecstasy of it. It seems that the lagoon is bursting with life now, new flowers in bloom, leaves turned even greener in the bright sunlight. If it’s Louis’ magic or Harry’s,, it doesn’t matter. It seems Neverland approves of them.
“Better than flying,” Louis murmurs after a moment, his face buried in Harry’s throat, nuzzling at the jumping vein there. “Better than the high wind on a cliffside.”
“Surprised we’re not soaring if happy thoughts lift us up.” Harry giggles, fingertips tracing through Louis’ hair, brushing back the spikey strands, over the curve of his ear. “Isn’t that what you said?”
“Are you not? Soaring, I mean?” Nipping at the corner of Harry’s jaw, Louis leans back with a wicked grin. “You’re still trembling. Can feel the shake in your legs.”
“You make me fly in all sorts of ways,” Harry replies softly, can’t help leaning in and kissing the curve of Louis’ lips. “Clever, clever boy.”
“Dearest one,” Louis sighs, affectionate and warm, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with how bright he grins at Harry. “My darling.”
"Sunshine," Harry coos back, fondly scrunching his nose a little, unable to contain it. He turns away from him then, only to kick his feet up, waist pulled low and head now resting back against Louis' shoulder. He's all spread out in front of Louis, all white lines of his body glimmering under the surface of the water, flushed pink on his chest and neck from pleasure.
"You like being held," Louis accuses gently, lifts his hands to rub along Harry's back, up along his waist, to his ribs. "Don't you?"
"I do." Harry has no shame in admitting it, though he does turn his head to press a fleeting kiss to Louis' ear. "Don’t you?"
"I like holding you." Murmuring the response into Harry's wet curls, Louis grins against his throat. "Just like this. Or when you're dreaming. Did you know you talk in your sleep?"
"I don't." Gasping a little, Harry is quick to shake his head. "No way. I'm as quiet as a dormouse."
"Well, dormice are actually pretty loud, or have you never heard them knocking? That’s how they got their name," Louis counters, rolling his eyes. He doesn't do it cruelly, just teasing. The turn of phrase earns Louis a loud barking laugh from Harry, who giggles so hard that Louis has to hold him still lest he fall below the surface.
"You really are clever," Harry muses, still giggling when he reaches up a hand, cups the back of Louis' neck. He can't stop touching him, doesn't want to separate them even for a moment. “I don't know how you manage to come up with the things you do."
"Practice. Imagination. Bravery." Louis lifts off a few key attributes, hands now resting on Harry's waist, holding him close. He seems to be under the same mindset, dragging his nose just behind Harry's ear, nuzzling at him. "You know, they used the best ingredients in life to make me."
"Oh, the ego on you." Turning his head, Harry playfully nips at Louis' jaw.
"Oh, the cleverness of me," Louis retorts, cocky grin and a wink to match. He looks the way he did in Harry's bedroom window, sure of himself and what he wanted. "Come on, Harry, did you really think anyone less than spectacular could come up with a place like this?"
"No, I'm not doubting you. I've seen it first hand. You are wonderful. Neverland is wonderful." Harry shakes his head, resettles into Louis' chest, kicking his feet in the water. "Surely it wasn't always like this, though. Before. The time Luke keeps talking about, why do we not talk about that? And where is Roland?"
It's like the sun has moved behind a cloud, that's how fast Louis freezes, goes cold with his hand still dragging over Harry's warm skin. He can feel the tightening of Louis’ muscles, the way his chest pulls in sharp, the catching of his breath. Harry tries to turn his head but Louis is already moving for them, pressing his palms into Harry’s waist and pushing him away.
“Why do you have to keep bringing it up?” he asks, tone gone sharp, bitter now as his eyes flash. "Why do you always have to ask questions like that?"
"I'm–" Harry hesitates, wraps his arms around himself. He doesn't like how this feels, how mean Louis' face is twisting. "I'm sorry. I just don't understand. I want to be there for you but–"
"No one asked you to be!" Louis swims over a few meters so he can stand, the water falling away from his shoulders, trickling over his chest. He's starting to turn a little pink, angry and sharp-tongued. "This is a boring fucking game. A sad, stupid, boring game and I don't want to play it with you anymore! Got it?"
"It's not a game." In disbelief, Harry shakes his head, his curls sticking to his cheek. "Louis, it's not a game. Not everything is a game! Why can't you just tell me what happened?"
"Because I don't want to!" Louis throws his hands up, shouting now as dark clouds start rolling in from the west, blocking out the sun. "I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to play like this. And I'm tired of telling you that. I said no!"
"But that's not fair! I keep getting punished for it and I don't even know why. Luke keeps saying things and doing things. You turn angry at the mere mention of it. All the other boys seem to know and I'm just left here," Harry tries to defend himself, backing far enough away he's able to perch his feet on the ground. "Why can't you just tell me the truth? I promise I won't be mad."
"I don't have to do anything that I don't want to! I make the rules here. I am in charge," Louis bellows, loud enough that the trees around them quiver, a bird taking flight. "So why don't you just shut up?"
The fight is short, bitter already, but with that last phrase, Harry's lips snap closed. Warm heat pools behind his eyes, something acidic and cruel twisting deep in his stomach. He back peddles, feet skidding painfully over the rocks as he clambers up out of the water, reaching blindly for the dirty clothes they forgot to pull into the water with them.
He yanks up his panties, the fabric clinging to his wet skin, followed quickly by yanking his dress over his head. The threads pop, twist a little on the hem, and Harry is sure he's partially torn it when he finally gets it back on.
"Hazza–" Louis murmurs behind him, soft and surprised. "Where are you going?"
"Away from you," Harry hiccups through his tears, pushing his palm roughly into his cheek. He's not sure if he's really crying yet or it's the water, but he feels drained.
"You can't just–" Louis tries to interrupt, swimming closer, but Harry turns on his heel and gives him the most angry and bitter look he can twist his face into.
"I can. I'm not staying here with you," he spits, dragging his teeth over his lip as he says the words. "You're nothing but a cruel little boy, Louis. And I wish–"
He pauses, takes in a shuddering breath as he glares down at Louis, thinks about the words before saying them all in one rush, quick on an exhale.
"I wish you'd just grow up!"
And then Harry is gone. His dress isn't even zipped. He's still sore from being tackled into the ground, the cut on his face stinging, but he can't slow down. He runs and runs and runs. Through dense forest and thick underbrush, along a sharp ridge that seems to drop endlessly below. Keeps moving and moving even as the harsh rain pelts down on him, as thunder rolls in from above, lightning crashing. It's dark in the forest, sun blocked out, but Harry isn't foolish enough to know he's not being watched. There is nowhere in Neverland that Harry can go that Louis can't sense.
It all feels so suddenly hopeless. Harry stops in the middle of the muddy path, the ferns licking at his ankles. Leaves and twigs are caught up in hair. He has blood trickling down his cheek from his cut. And he's alone. Bitterly alone in a place he doesn't even know how to find his way out of.
Looking around, Harry does the only thing he can think to do. There is a hollowed-out tree just off to the left, gaping at the base, and Harry scrambles for it, getting down on his hands and knees to crawl inside. It's a tight fit, dark and muddy, a few spider webs clinging above him, but it's semi-dry and gets him out of the onslaught of rain.
Exhausted and freezing, he has little choice other than to curl up on himself, knees to his chest, as sleep demands him. He only has a moment to blink out through the rain, thinks he sees the cut of something or someone moving through the trees until he can't focus anymore and slips under.
- - -
“Stop fucking staring at me,” Louis grumbles under his breath, pulling his knees up so they press tight and uncomfortable to his chest. He’s managed to pull his pants back on, even though it feels useless as the rain pelts against him, the storm turns nasty the longer Louis sits and broods.
“I will stop staring at you when you finally tell me why you’re causing a hurricane on the island,” Zayn shouts above the sound of the harsh wind. He’s pulled his wings up, pushed them together so they create a cover over him. It puts him into shadow, though, a gold light glowing around his face making him look eerie.
“I already told you. I don’t want to fucking talk about it.” He’s tired of talking. Tired of feeling things that are foreign and strange and scary. Tired of looking at Harry and not understanding the way Louis just wants to pull him closer, to keep him in ways that he's never felt before.
"Lou." Zayn's feet make no noise as he steps over the rocks, over the soft leaves to crouch down. He's unnaturally warm, fairy magic, and his fingertips leave stains of gold dust when they reach for Louis' hands, holding them between his own. "What is it? Tell me."
"I–" Louis starts, choking on the words as they seem to become lodged in his throat. He gasps for a minute before suddenly tears, hot and fast, are sliding down his cheeks and he lets out a desperate, wet sort of sob. "I don't want to grow up. I don’t want to go back and be a man. It was horrible there, Z. You can’t even imagine. The things that people do to each other, demand it."
"What? No. Louis, no one is telling you to grow up," Zayn soothes, throwing his arm around the boy instead, pulling him in tightly. "No one is saying that."
"Harry did. He said I was mean and selfish and I should grow up," Louis whimpers, coughing hard as he continues to cry. "And then he just stormed off."
"Why would he say something like that, hm? That doesn't seem like him." Zayn runs a hand through the back of Louis' hair, cupping his nape. "Harry loves it here. He’s always so happy you brought him here."
"We were playing our game. Our secret game – only this time it was different. It was something else. And then he fucking ruined it by asking about Roland." Bitterly, Louis spits the name like a curse. "And I told him to stop asking about it. I don't want to tell him or anyone about him ever again. He can just stay on his side of the island and rot away."
"I know you don't want to talk about him. I know that. But you can't just hide that part of the story away forever," Zayn counters. Louis tries to yank away from him with a sharp inhale but Zayn tightens his arm, humming softly to soothe him. “You know I’m on your side. Louis, what happened was–"
"Awful. The worst thing imaginable," Louis chokes out. He’s shaking in Zayn’s arms, trembling a little as his nails dig at Zayn’s soft waist, clinging to him. “He tried to take everything from me. Everything, Z. All of this would have been ruined. And Harry wants to hear that? Why would anyone want to hear that miserable story?”
“Sometimes sad stories are necessary to understand why the good stories are so good,” Zayn murmurs, fingertips stroking over Louis’ brow. “To show that it can’t be bad all the time, Lou. It won’t be. You just have to hold on, remember?”
"I want to have fun and play games and go on adventures. Not feel bad or think about the horrible things that have happened to me. He doesn't understand that. He always wants to talk and talk and feel things." Louis sniffles, wiping the side of his hand aggressively under his nose. “Why does he have to be like that?”
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe Harry cares about you? Maybe he wants to help you when you feel sad or upset.” Cupping Louis’ chin, Zayn pulls them apart so he can stare down at his best friend. “Wouldn’t you do the same? Didn’t you take him away from that place when he was sad and hurting? When he was going through the worst things imaginable?”
“But I should just be over it. It happened so long ago. I have my lads now.” Louis shrugs noncommittally, flippant to his own regard. “I’ve got my boys. Got my pixie. My storyteller. They’re all I need.”
“You do,” Zayn agrees easily, going back to stroking over Louis’ eyebrow. “But just because things are good now doesn’t mean that we can forget when they were bad. Roland is still out there. And the longer he is, sitting and plotting on the other side of the island, the more Harry and the others are going to wonder. The ones who weren’t here, who don’t remember.”
“But all I want to do is forget.”
Louis lets out a whimper, shaking his head as the tears come rushing back in. He burrows his head deep into Zayn’s stomach, sniffling as the rain about them turns hazy and cold. It’s a miserable rain for a miserable boy, all worked up over things that should have never happened. Zayn was here for it. He remembers, remembers the magic flexing and expanding, Louis’ power flickering in the night like a candle left too close to a window.
"Alright, alright, love. Take a breath. You're alright." Zayn fits himself further into the curve of Louis' body, gently rocking them a little. He's smeared them both with fairy dust, gleaming gold even as the rain starts to lessen, worn out and tired. Louis slumps into him, bitterly huffing around his tears. If Zayn could, he’d pick him up like a small babe, hold him close to his chest, make it all go away.
"Now," Zayn soothes, still keeping them on a steady beat. "You must know that Harry cares for you. In the way you care for him. That sort of caring – that feeling, Lou – it means something. More than just friendship. More than just mates or lads or what have you."
"He's my storyteller." Louis rubs a hand roughly along his cheek, the skin red and blotchy. “I needed a storyteller. Someone to keep the magic alive.”
"Louis." Zayn gives him a stare, eyes narrowed. "I know you remember. Yemọja told me she was making you remember. What it means for you to feel this way, what this feeling is. What love is.”
“I don’t want it if it feels bad like this,” Louis mutters, closing his eyes. He looks so very young like this, wet hair and red-cheeked, nineteen and the weight of boyhood holding him close like a friend while manhood bangs on the door. “I don’t want to play anymore, Z. Not this way.”
“It’s hard, I know,” Zayn sympathizes, strokes his back, the knobs of his spine. He can feel when Louis stops sobbing, just little pitiful sniffles. “But you have to be brave, Lou. You have to have courage when it comes to feelings, to opening yourself up, to remembering what it means to have it. There is power in that, strength.”
“It’s all gone so wrong, though. Harry was so mad at me. You didn’t see his face.” Pulling back, Louis stares up at Zayn with a deeply furrowed brow, lips puffy from biting at them. “He hates me.”
“Stop it. You’re making this so complicated.” Zayn moves his hands to Louis’ shoulders, shaking him a little. “Harry doesn’t hate you. If anything, he loves you beyond anything else. In this world and the other.”
“But–“ He tries to interject, but Zayn keeps Louis from continuing his thought.
“No buts. You need to talk to him, explain that it was a misunderstanding. Clear the air.” Zayn holds up a finger when Louis opens his mouth, finishing first. “And tell him that when you’re ready, when you can, then you will tell him about Roland.”
“It feels like so much, though. Boring and hard. I don’t want to grow up and become old and tired of everything. I don’t want to be sad, staring at some fire, knowing my life has been wasted. I don’t want it. That’s why I came here, why I built Neverland. Because I couldn’t do it.” Louis sniffles, rubs that same hand over his face. It sounds so young, so naïve, when he blinks up at Zayn, eyelashes wet and sticking together. “I want to be like this forever.”
“But it won’t be like this forever without Harry.” Zayn raises a knowing eyebrow. Louis likes to think he’s the only one who knows what goes on around here but the forest knows all. They love Louis and they understand him. “You need your storyteller to keep the magic. He tells your stories and the others believe in you – children from all over the world, both worlds, all know your name. Believe in the myth and legend of Louis Tomlinson, the boy who never grew up. Without Harry, you’re in danger of forgetting and being forgotten in return.”
“I know I need him.” Louis sighs, defeated and soft, not bitter. He accepted it a long time ago. “I’ve always needed him. I spent forever looking for him. And now that I have him, have my magic back in full force, I’m going to lose it. I can’t do that, Zayn. I can’t!”
“Then you have to choose.” Humming softly, Zayn brushes a few strands of hair from Louis’ forehead. “You can find a place between – where you can be mature enough to know when you’ve hurt someone and how you feel about them, and use it, let a new magic come in and power you. Or, you can let things go back to the way they were before. Before you ever brought him here.”
“What if he doesn’t want me?” Louis whispers, rubs again at his nose, his eyes. “What if I ruined it all? What we do when we’re alone–” He pauses, a brilliant shade of pink ghosting over his cheeks. “It’s special. It’s different than anything else I’ve done with any of the other boys. And I fucked it all up with him.”
“I don’t think you fucked it up with him. I think you made a rash decision based on emotion,” Zayn answers, letting out a deep sigh. “And I think you need to talk to him about that too. You need to set boundaries – rules, if you will – that make sure both of you don’t end up feeling this way or worse.”
Seeming to mull it over, Louis gives a small nod of his head, deflating back in on himself. He doesn’t look relieved exactly, but he isn’t crying anymore, the rain above dissipating to just heavy clouds now. Reaching down, Zayn cups Louis’ chin in his hand, drawing his face up.
“Be brave, Louis. Love is the greatest adventure of all.”
“Thank you.” Louis nods, leans forward to press a kiss to Zayn’s cheek. It makes his skin pinken, Zayn blushing hard as Louis pulls back from him, getting to his feet. “I’m going to go find him. I’m going to make this right,” he calls over his shoulder before flying up and then into the trees.
- - -
Harry wakes to the feeling of soft cotton on his face and the thick smell of wood smoke. He doesn’t open his eyes at first, just takes careful assessment of his body, wiggles his toes, his fingers, sees if anything hurts. Other than the dull throb in his head and eyes, he feels alright. His dress is gone, Harry knows, can feel the brush of blankets against him but nothing else, though his panties are still in place. He’s also warm, luxuriously comfortable on a bed that feels more traditional than Harry’s nest back at the Tree House.
Peeking through his eyelashes, Harry can vaguely make out the room that he’s in through the flickering candlelight. He’s laying in what appears to be a large, four-poster bed with a large room surrounding it. It’s made up of rich, dark wood and there is a large section of windows that seems to wrap around one wall. On the table in the corner, a white jug sits within a bowl, a mirror above it half-cracked and faded from use.
Slipping a hand down, Harry pushes himself up on his arm, using his free hand to keep the blankets at his chest. He doesn’t know where he is, just knows that he’s inside somewhere and from the way the room is slightly swaying, it seems that they might not be on land anymore. He can’t hear the usual sounds – no muffled voices of Lost Boys trying and failing to be quiet, no soft chimes or bells of Zayn flying around, not even birds chirping just outside of his view.
“Louis?” Harry whispers, palm resting firmly over the blankets, pressing his pearl pendant into his skin. It’s a comforting weight. “Hello?”
Suddenly, a small door off the side is being thrown open and a man steps through holding a large steaming mug in his hand. He’s got an oddly juxtaposed face – dark scraggly beard laying scattered over his jaw, his long curls to match tied back with a silver ribbon. It matches the hook on his right hand, as well as the large dagger attached to his hip. He’s wearing a loose shirt too, billowy sleeves and tucked into high-waisted leather pants. For as old as his beard seems to make him, there is something youthful about his eyes. Mischievous as they take in Harry with a slowly growing smile.
“Oh, I hoped I was going to be back before you came to. How are you? How did you sleep, darling?” he asks, voice honey-soft and cooing, as he makes his way further into the room. When he sees Harry draw back, though, blankets pulled to his chest, he frowns a little. “Not a fan of tea?”
“No.” Harry is quick to answer before immediately shaking his head. “No, I am. Thank you. I just– Who are you?”
“You don’t know?” he asks, a cocky little tilt to his head. A very familiar tilt to his head. The realization of which settles disjointed and weird in the pit of Harry’s stomach, like he’s swallowed something bitter and off. For as curious as he was, Harry knows that meeting him this way is wrong.
“Oh,” he gasps, hand flexing on the blankets, wanting to pull back even further but the pirate is already nearing him, coming closer to push the porcelain mug onto the small table by the bed. It smells richly of honey and bergamot, swirling with cream.
“My reputation precedes me, I see.” He grins, jagged teeth and gleaming, dark eyes. “Well, no matter. I presume my name doesn’t come up in pleasant conversation. Louis wouldn’t allow that.”
Harry can’t stop staring at the jagged metal of the man’s right hand. It looks self-made, beaten with a hammer to the rough shape, razor-sharp. He uses it to draw the curtain back from around the bed, drawing closer until he can perch just on the edge of the mattress. Harry has nowhere to go, no space to slip away. He’s mostly naked under the blankets, body exhausted and sore from falling asleep under the tree, chest aching from the fight he had with Louis.
“Feel like proper introductions are in order, though, pet.” The man grins, raising a brow. He’s close enough that Harry can see the gold of his tooth glinting in the candlelight. “It’s proper manners to introduce yourself if you’re going to be staying in a man’s bed, eh?”
“I’m Harry,” he murmurs, getting that coiling feeling spreading in his stomach, like he shouldn’t have said that. “Harry Styles.”
“Well, pleasure to meet you, Harry.” Giving a brief nod, the pirate raises his right arm, hook held high above both of them. “I’m Roland, but you already knew that. Know me by my other name too, hm?”
“Captain Hook.”
Gasping the name from between his lips, Harry’s eyes widen as he fights to remain still. There before him, poised on the edge of the sheets, is the villain of all of Harry’s stories. The dark-eyed pirate that is the antagonist to all of Louis’ wonderful adventures. He’s the darkest, most rotten part of all of Neverland and he’s sitting not but a few inches away, grinning as if he thinks the whole thing is very clever. And although Harry knows he should be afraid, should recoil, call out for help, all he can do is stare in fascination.
He's not what Harry expected. Roland is young. Or, at least, younger than Harry had imagined Captain Hook to be. A few wrinkles cling to the corners of his eyes but his forehead is smooth, shoulders still broad and strong with young. His hand, the one resting on the blankets, is marred with scars from a life as a pirate but the knuckles are smooth. He barely looks over twenty-five, too far into manhood to be part of Louis’ crew but still far from the aging, sad man Harry had talked so often about in his stories.
“I don’t understand.” Shaking his head, Harry bites at his bottom lip. “How can you be Roland and Captain Hook at the same time? I thought that Roland was the very first Lost Boy.”
“Smart boy,” Roland smirks, reaching out a hand to brush a curl off Harry’s shoulder. He’s so close now that Harry can smell the hint of tobacco on his fingertips. “I was.”
“But you’re not now.” Very carefully, Harry casually slides his knees up to his chest, putting some space between them. He doesn’t like the way Roland is with him, doesn’t feel right to have him touch him, not like this, not in a way that Louis does. “Why?”
A dark look shifts over Roland’s face, pulls his eyebrows together, mustache twitching as he rolls his tongue over his teeth. He’s a storm rolling in, a dark cloud over a turbulent sea. Harry doesn’t know how to read him, feels like he asked the right question even if the answer is about to feel wrong. He wishes quite suddenly that he was back at the Tree House, curled up in his little nest of blankets and furs, safe high above the ground. But he doubts that is going to happen anytime soon as Roland lets out another deep sigh.
“I suppose it must have something to do with why you were sleeping under a tree in the middle of the forest.” He sends a careful glance back toward Harry, raising an eyebrow. “But then again, maybe that’s just Louis’ way. He gets a new toy, a new pet, uses them up and then leaves them to rot.”
“He didn’t leave me.” Heat blooms in Harry’s chest, an acidic sort of tang on the back of his tongue. “He didn’t.”
“You know he will, though. I thought he wasn’t going to leave me either. I was the very first. The one to be chosen, to follow Louis through the air and space and come to Neverland. His oasis. His chosen world.” Roland sighs, scoffing out a bitter laugh. “How do you say no to such a boy? How do you even think of it?”
There is a knot growing in the pit of Harry’s stomach, a sort of rolling, sickening feeling that makes him want to curl in on himself. This feels wrong somehow. Like he shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be feeling the creeping sadness starting to prickle at the back of his mind. Would Harry end up like this? Would he be cast aside for someone else one day? Louis has shown time and time again that he bores easily of games, of needy boys. Is Harry the same?
“I just wanted to make him mine, I suppose,” Roland continues, tone gone soft, forlorn. “How do you not start to feel something for someone like him? Louis is beyond all, you know? Brighter than any star in the sky. But Louis doesn’t do little, stupid games like that. He can’t love, you know? He doesn’t know how. Thinks it’s boring and for grown-ups. He’ll never change either.”
“He’s not a mean person,” Harry defends, bites at his bottom lip. “Louis cares about us. Cares about me. He saved me from the other world, the other place that was so horrible. Why would he do something like that if he was just going to abandon me?”
“For his own amusement.” Scoffing, Roland gives Harry a pitying look, all soft mouth and eyebrows. “He didn’t take you to save you. He took you because he wanted you. You must do something for him. Amuse him in some way. Serve a purpose. Have the boys given you a nickname yet? A special thing for you to carry on about.”
“You don’t know him. Not like I do.” Harry’s hands begin to tremble as they flex on the blankets, tugging them higher against his chest. It stabs at him – sharp bursts of pain in his chest with the way Roland is speaking of Louis. Regardless of the fight, of the raw burn of Louis’ vicious words, Harry can’t help that unwavering loyalty he has. “Louis isn’t like that.”
“Why are you shaking then? Why are you looking at me like that?” Roland’s tone turns sharp, vicious as he leers closer, the gold in his mouth reflecting the candlelight. He is the villain in the story – the monster with his sharp hook and his snapping words. “Pet, you’re pretty but I didn’t take you for being pretty stupid. Louis is a boy – a selfish, aggressive little boy. He wants and wants until he gets his way and then he moves onto the next thing. You can’t expect this to last forever. It’s a fairytale. And all fairytales end.”
“Stop talking about him like that!” Harry shouts, feels it ripped out of his throat, voice turned raw. “You can’t say things like that! I won’t let you.”
Raising his hand, Harry tugs on his bottom lip, pinching it between his first finger and thumb. His eyes are burning, tears welling up bitter and strong. Hadn’t he heard the exact same thing from Louis before? The look of anger, of disgust, marring Louis’ beautiful face. The way he had told Harry it was stupid, pathetic. How he didn’t want to play their game. And maybe Harry hadn’t realized how much of it all seemed to be on Louis’ terms. Even the pleasure, the touching that he claimed wasn’t a game, maybe that was make-believe too.
“Oh. Oh, no.”
Suddenly, Roland is close again, pulling a small lace handkerchief out of his pocket and offering it up. Harry can see the letters RH embroidered on the corner in light yellow, a small dagger cutting through the letters. He takes it, presses it up against his cheek to the tears that have managed to leak out.
“Pet, what is it? I haven’t upset you, have I?” Roland asks, sounds so sincere when he gently places his hand on Harry’s forearm, eyes gone large.
“No, no. I’m alright.” Harry tries to shake his head but another tear spills out from the corner of his eyes, traces down the length of his cheek to get caught at the corner of his lip. His secret kiss now covered in tears.
“You aren’t…” Roland trails off, leaving the words heavy in the air before he manages to say them, “in love with him, are you?”
Harry wants to deny it. Wants to shake his head and tell Roland to mind his own business. To stop poking at wounds that Harry didn’t even realize he had. But what is the point? What would it prove at all if Harry were to lie about it? He’s known for a while. Maybe he’s always known, back when stories were all he had. But then, after meeting Louis, knowing Louis, memorizing his laugh and the way he feels when he pulls Harry into his arms when they’re tangled up in their bed. There was no other choice, no option. Of course Harry fell in love.
“How very fickle our hearts are,” Roland sighs, shaking his head, a long strand of hair escaping from his ponytail. He already knows the answer without Harry even having to say it. “The cruelest to ourselves, I suspect. You’re tender-hearted, just like me.”
“I don’t understand.” Harry sniffles, wiping at his eyes again. “You stayed here? He kicked you out and what? You stayed? Why didn’t you go somewhere else? Why didn’t you ask to go back?”
“I had nowhere else to go. He just… forgot about me.” Roland shrugs a little, despondent. “Wiped me away from his thoughts and then left me here to just be. Like a toy put on a shelf and never picked up again. He doesn’t want to be concerned with it. It’s not a fun game anymore for him.”
“How very sad.” Harry reaches out, puts his hand on top of Roland’s on his knee, chest seizing. The hook glints on the bedsheets just to the side of them. “You must be so lonely here.”
“I have a few on my crew. A few other boys that Louis brought and forgot about.” Roland smiles a little, bitter in the eyes and the corners of his mouth. “You have a space here if it comes to that. You’d make a good pirate, I think. Already have the hair for it.”
He goes to reach out, touch the curl on Harry’s temple again, but Harry leans out of his grasp with a little frown. Regardless of how much his heart is aching, body weak from the rain and sleeping and just the whole lot of it, Harry still doesn’t feel right about the touch. It feels too intimate. Like he’s giving a preview of himself away that belongs to Louis. That even though Harry’s heart feels torn open, there is still a piece of hope left.
“Thank you. I will think about it.” Harry nods, reaches up to push that curl behind his ear, out of reach. He’s very aware of the way Roland is watching him, dark eyes roving over his naked shoulders, the peak of his chest. “If it comes to it.”
“Ah. Well,” Roland slips off the mattress, smoothing his hook over his shirt, straightening himself out with a shake to his shoulders. “Think it’s about time we got you back to your boys then, hm, pet? Can’t have them missing their Harry.”
He goes to a chest in the corner, an old thing with brass buckles on it, tossing it open so it clatters loudly against the wall. Inside it’s filled with frilly fabric, long dresses and capes, a set of trousers embroidered in elaborate filigree. There are hats and handkerchiefs and scarves in every color imaginable. Looks like a whole store magically thrown inside its cedar confines, half spilled out and gleaming in the dim light.
“Here, take your pick. Whatever you like.” Roland gestures toward the mound of fabric. “And when you’re done, we’ll get you back onto shore.”
“Thank you.”
Harry keeps the blankets against his chest, swinging his legs carefully over the edge, toes barely touching the floor. Roland takes another one of his long sweeping glances, trails his eyes from Harry’s legs, up his long calves and thighs, along the blankets and then to where they’ve fallen away. He lingers there, on the smooth plane of Harry’s exposed back, his hair fallen onto his shoulders, before Roland gives a little smirk and a shake of his head, slipping out of the room.
Taking the blankets off the bed with him, Harry keeps them pressed to his chest, just in case, as he rummages through the clothing for a suitable choice.
- - -
The fae are singing tonight. A chorus of soft voices raising and lowering in one prolonged, never-ending tone. It’s an ancient language – the speaking runes – each one breathed into existence with the delicate curve of a tongue and a note released on an exhale. They’re waking up the night sky, pulling the stars into focus, the moon big and full above the dewy leaves of the forest below. Down there, new voices are starting to wake up and join the song – crickets fiddling their legs in a low drawl, a baritone frog repeating his own melody. Neverland is falling asleep even as it’s waking up.
Zayn is a fluttering ball of light around the eaves of a large sycamore tree, its large leaves perfect for weaving in and out of. He’s been searching the island all day, hunting out in the deep crevices between the boulders of the Jumping Rocks, scaling the large pines that line the edge of the cliffs, even down to the watery edges of the swamp and the trailing lakes beyond. Everywhere he’s gone, he’s felt the anxiety growing, the choking heat of Louis’ fear, his anger turning the sky into a heavy blanket of clouds and thunder.
It's all for nothing, though. Louis had muttered, frantic and red-faced, to Zayn a few hours ago that Harry’s light had gone out again. That he was here and then he wasn’t, beyond what Louis could see, what the magic would allow him to search. There are places, even on the island itself, that Louis has no access to. Hidden places, secrets not yet explored.
Now, though, night has been stretching for a while, darkness looming in the large trees and heavy underbrush of the forest. Zayn is sure he wouldn’t even have noticed him if Harry hadn’t tripped over the thick root, sent hurtling forward into the small grove of trees. He drops whatever he was holding, would fall forward into it if not for his hand coming out to grab a handful of vines nearby. It dislodges the snake that had been napping in it, but the creature only gives an annoyed flick of his tongue before slithering off.
“Ow. Fuck me,” Harry mutters, pulling his hand away and immediately to his mouth. His palm is bleeding a little, scraped on the side, and Harry puts his lips around the mark.
“You’re very clumsy. For someone the mermaids won’t stop raving about,” Zayn comments, hands on his hips. In his normal form, it’s hard for him to remember his human manners, to be conscious of space. He ends up zooming in close to Harry, his glow turned bright like that burst of a sun ray on water. “Where have you been?”
“Oh! Zayn, thank goodness.”
Harry raises his non-bleeding hand up, opens his palm so Zayn has somewhere to stand. The fairy finds this mildly amusing considering it’s no hardship to him to fly, wings meant for it, but he humors him anyway – landing just below the base of his middle finger. Harry’s eyes glow in the reflection of Zayn’s fairy light, looking emerald and dark. Zayn understands a bit why Louis always seems so enraptured by them, spends half the evening listening to the stories Harry tells and staring at him, chin on his palm.
“I’m so glad to have found you,” Harry is continuing on, glancing at the dark forest around them, chest heaving as if he’s been running for a while. “I thought I was close to the treehouse but I can’t seem to find it. Everything looks so different at night and the forest doesn’t have a path. It’s late, too. Do you think you can help me?”
“Help you? Help you?” Zayn shouts, throwing his hands up. Anger floods through him like a tap turned on full blast. He can’t regulate himself when he’s this tiny, filled up on one emotion with no room for any other. He stomps his bare foot, a tinge of crimson rippling through his magical light. How can Harry seem so flippant about this? Doesn’t he know what he put Louis through? What he put all of them through?
“Do you have any idea how worried we’ve all been?” Zayn shakes his head, spilling gold dust all over Harry’s skin. “Louis has been out of his fucking mind! He’s looked everywhere. Half convinced you went back home, found a way to slip into the sky and back to the other place.”
“I’m sorry,” Harry interrupts, raises his hand so it’s level with his eyes and he’s staring directly at Zayn. “I don’t understand. I can’t hear you. It’s just–”
“Can’t hear me? Open your bloody ears!” Zayn snaps, that rage turned hot and festering in his chest. Harry hadn’t seen the hidden tears in Louis’ eyes, the frustration of looking and not finding what he should be able to feel. Every mermaid was asked, every gnome and sprite and fae were sent to look for him. Even the shadows that cling to the edge of the barren lands had been interrogated and yet nothing. No one at all.
“Selfish brat. The whole island has been looking for you and you show back up out of nowhere. No reason. No excuse. Louis is worried sick. The boys are too,” Zayn rattles out, wings fluttering so hard he knocks himself off of Harry's palm, instead hovering above it.
“Z, please. I don’t speak fairy.” Harry nervously bites at his bottom lip, tugging on the skin there until he creates a little sore. “Your bells, I–”
“Fuck!”
Frustration bubbles inside of Zayn, beats viciously at his head as he pushes himself back, gives himself enough space to move. Changing size is never an easy task, all the stretching and shifting, but this time, Zayn rushes himself. One moment, he’s a ball of glowing red and orange light, and the next he’s standing in front of Harry with an equally angry scowl, body tender from the shift, wings fluttering hard behind him.
“I said,” Zayn repeats himself, attitude bleeding into the way he enunciates the words. “You disappear for hours. No one knows where you are, what happened to you. And you just show up and have the audacity to ask for help? To not even be a little sorry for it all?”
Now that he’s bigger, Zayn can feel his rage starting to dissipate, changing form from all-consuming to allow him to notice things. Like the large white shirt Harry is wearing, the ties left undone on the front, neckline spilling over Harry’s shoulder to expose the sharp cut of a collarbone. And then to the pants, leather and tight, worn in on the knees and hem. He’s still barefoot, toes digging into the soft ground where Zayn can see the thing he dropped from before – his regular blue dress. Even his hair is clean, curls tucked in behind one of his ears, nestled against his shoulders.
“And what in the world are you wearing?”
“It’s kind of a long story.” Awkwardly, Harry reaches up and runs a hand along the back of his neck, tugging on his hair. “I got in a fight with Louis after the game and ran off. I thought I was going to the house but I got turned around in the storm and ended up falling asleep inside of a tree because I was just so tired.”
“Uh huh.” Zayn nods once, noticing the details now. Harry is clean, mostly, except for his feet, with his curls a little less wild compared to someone else who got caught in the rain all night. In fact, he looks surprisingly well put together, shirt stark white, sleeves a bit short but well made. Even the dusty pink of his cheeks looks, well, healthy.
“And when I woke up again, I was somewhere else. Like, someone had found me and brought me to safety. And then I spent some time there and then they dropped me off by the edge of the woods to find my way back. They didn’t know where I was staying. But I got lost again and now, we’re here,” Harry confesses, shrugs his shoulders like that will be the end of it, but Zayn has to pry.
“And who was it that had you? Who took you out of a tree to save you?” He asks the question, but it’s almost pointless as Zayn takes in better inventory.
A cotton shirt made of sails. Leather trousers cut to fit into large boots. The way Harry is tugging on his lip again, all doe-eyed and startled, sure to bolt at the first accusation. But Zayn doesn’t have to interrogate him at all. He already knows the exact answer to his question, and it’s with a sinking realization that the moment Louis sees him, he’s going to know, too.
“Roland found you.” Zayn exhales slowly, empties his lungs of every ounce of breath. This is bad. So incredibly bad.
“Captain Hook found me,” Harry corrects, running a hand through his curls and shaking his head. “Why didn’t any of you tell me? Why can’t I know this story? He was here all along and no one told me. I kept wondering but–”
“Look, mate, it’s not my business to tell,” Zayn answers honestly, reaching up to grab Harry’s shoulder, tugging him forward. “But we need to get you home now, alright? Put your dress back on first.”
“Wait, why?” Harry doesn’t try to fight it when Zayn starts tugging on the fabric, pulling it up over his belly, getting it near his arms. “Z, wait! What’s wrong?”
“You can’t wear this home.” Zayn shakes his head, abandons the shirt for Harry to finish as he starts in on the ties of his pants. “Hurry. If I found you, then Louis probably already knows–“
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. The loud sound of twigs snapping and leaves rustling breaks through to their right, a loud jumble of conversation and shouting following it. Torchlight spills across the small break in the trees and before Zayn can even react, half a dozen boys come spilling out of the foliage. They’re all out of sorts – covered in dirt, hair a mess, holding lights and clubs, a few with a spear held high above their head. Luke leads them, a bruise on his cheek that wasn’t there before, teeth glinting in the light when he takes in the pair of them – Harry half undressed, Zayn tugging on him. He doesn’t get to say anything, though, because Niall and Liam are shoving forward, both of them colliding into each other and then into Harry, wrapping him up in a tight hug.
“Hazza!” Niall shouts, face burrowing into the crease of Harry’s sternum. “Where in the world have you been?”
“Had us fucking sick with worry, mate.” Liam cups the back of Harry’s neck, holds him just as tight. “Thought something terrible had happened. Looked absolutely everywhere for you.”
“I’m sorry. I got lost.” Wheezing a little from the tight hold, Harry pats his friends on the back, shoulders drooping a little in relief. “The woods are so dark.”
“You’ve been gone for ages,” Calvin whines a bit, rolling his eyes as Stan elbows into his ribs. “Louis was furious.”
“Looks like you had a nice time, though,” Luke interrupts, eyebrow raised with that cocky little grin of his pulling up the corner of his smile. “Didn’t you?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
Harry is gentle as he pushes Liam and Niall back a bit, straightens out his shirt, pushes his hair back. He tries to hold himself aloof, but it’s no use. Harry wears it on him like a blaring sign – the guilt of something he did wrong. Luke isn’t the only boy to get it, though. Calvin’s eyes go huge, mouth falling open in shock as he fully takes Harry in.
“Oh, I would. Had a grand ol’ time, didn’t you? Showing up in another man’s clothes,” Luke snickers. All that jealousy, all that rage from before, seems to bubble up to the surface again. He’s a boy with a grudge, poking at a healing wound, and he doesn’t look anything other than pleased by it.
“It’s not what it looks like.” Harry glances toward Zayn, eyes widening in confusion, moving to both Niall and Liam. They’re just as lost as their friend. “I got turned around. The storm was bad.”
“Just a bit of fun, right, Harry? A game is all. Come on, play along,” Luke leers over his shoulder, tugging hard on Harry until he crashes into Luke’s side. “I know you like to play games with the boys. Play secret games with Louis, too. Did you do them with Roland?”
“You’re an ass,” Harry hisses, wiggling a hand between them to scratch at Luke’s arm, trying to get free, but Luke tightens his hold until it feels like a bruise.
“I just want to know what game you had to play to win his clothes. Did he put his captain hat on you too when he let you ride on his ship?” Eyes gleaming, Luke leans in close enough that Harry can smell his breath, the twinge of sharp grapes on his tongue. “Bet you’d make a pretty first mate.”
The slap resonates around the small clearing, a gasp falling out of Calvin’s mouth as Harry stands there, hand still raised, chest heaving. Luke tongues over where his teeth caught on his lip, coming away red with blood, making his grin look feral. He’s a beast about to strike.
“Luke. Stop it. Right now.” Zayn steps in. Regardless of what he thinks of the situation, he knows that Luke adding to it won’t help. Especially if Louis finds out the absolute shit he’s spewing to Harry.
“Stop what, exactly? I was told to go fetch Harry here. Louis saw his light come back.” Luke sneers, lashing out a hand and snatching up Harry’s wrist, jerking him forward. “Come on then, Mum. Let’s go see what Dad has to say about all this.”
“Wait, I–”
Harry tugs hard against the hold, throws his back into it, but Luke is stronger, has weight to throw around. He yanks Harry with him, ignores the other boy stumbling, bare feet tripping in the underbrush as Luke guides Harry out of the clearing and back into the trees. Calvin and Stan follow just a second behind, not helping exactly, but not stopping them either. They look just as perplexed, not truly getting the meaning behind it. Liam and Niall scramble after the trio, Zayn quick on their heels, completing the line. There isn’t time to change back into his smaller form, left to dash after the others on his feet.
“Luke, stop. You’re hurting me,” Harry cries out, shoulder bouncing off of a low-hanging branch, trying to wiggle away. He can’t seem to wrench hard enough to break the hold, though.
“Oi, watch it. Louis is gonna be raging if you bang him up,” Calvin warns, pushing the limb up so it doesn’t hit him and then Liam behind.
They’re making so much noise, the lot of them, shoving around trees and crashing over fallen logs. Birds scatter out of their way, taking flight with an indignant squawk. A herd of deer are quick to sprint away from the party, even a lone badger turns a glaring eye at them before toddling off. The forest is loud around them but they make up most of it, scrambling and bumping into one another, practically running as their voices bounce around the canopy.
“Ow! Let go!”
“Luke! Luke, stop it. You can’t do it like this.”
“Come on, Mummy. Dad said he wanted you back as soon as possible.”
“You fucking dickhead. Let him go. Right now!”
“Stop, please. Wait a moment.”
Until it all comes to an end as Luke pushes through a small cropping of bushes and deposits them right before the large oak tree. Its branches stretch out in all directions, so massive that even if the group linked arms, they would not be able to fit around it. Knowingly, Luke marches forward, knocks on the gathering of boulders at the base and they roll away, showing the slide hidden underneath. Before Harry can even really dig his heels in, Luke is grabbing him around the waist and practically throws him into the opening, following just behind.
They crash down the shoot, wood slick and knocking into elbows and knees. Feet over head until Harry finds himself sprawled out onto the packed dirt floor, staring up at the main room of the Tree House. Above him, branches and alcoves are cut into the wooden framework, tapestries and curtains hung to disguise the multiple rooms. Below, though, the room is vast with the dining table along one side, a hearth buried in the other, but there in the center is the throne.
It's a large chair made of carved wood, wing-backed and decorated with a plethora of carved crystals and stones. They’re formed into what looks like half a sun, the beams stretching out in every direction, catching gold and bronze in the bright lights of the candles. And there, sprawled with one leg thrown over the arm, looking entirely royal and put out, is Louis.
He sits up a bit when Harry is thrown to the floor, eyebrows raised as Luke crashes down against him, followed quickly by Calvin, Stan, Liam, and then lastly Niall. Zayn has the mind to float down, his wings beating rapidly as he lands close to Louis' side. They’re not the only ones in the room, though. The rest of the boys are all crowded around the edges of the room, looking just as tired and ragged as the others. It seems all of them were looking for Harry – for a very long time.
“You’re back,” Louis murmurs, hands moving before himself, rubbing his palms together in slow circles. He seems to be taking everything in – from the way Harry throws Luke’s legs off him, scrambling to his feet, to the way the shirt falls off his shoulder, exposing the long curve of his throat, his collarbones.
“I would have been back sooner but I got lost.”
Harry huffs a little as he straightens out his hair, ruffling up the curls before pushing them back. Regardless of what just happened in the woods, Harry cannot forget that the two of them are still fighting. That he’s angry with Louis, so hurt by the way he had been dismissed. But there is longing there, too. A desire to throw himself at Louis’ feet, to curl into the curve of his legs, to find his head resting in his lap. He wants to kiss Louis’ mouth and tell him the terrible things Luke said about him, to draw them upstairs and strip away the roles they seem to have fallen into.
“I found him by the Weeping Willow,” Luke interrupts, stepping forward to stand just before Harry, meeting Louis’ gaze with a look of his own. “Zayn was trying to take off his clothes.”
“You vile little–“ Zayn snarls, bright red light shimmering around him as he takes a step forward. Louis is quick to raise his hand, though, making him stop in his tracks.
“Stop,” Louis commands. He slowly swings his legs around, feet planting on the floor as he looks past Luke again, sea blue gaze shifting over Harry. “What are you wearing?”
“I can explain–“ Harry starts, only for Calvin to interrupt, poised just by the opening of the slide.
“He’s been to see Hook!”
The room freezes. Not even their breathing can be heard as Louis’ eyebrow slowly raises, looking up through his eyelashes at Harry. There is a hurricane rolling in that gaze, a shadow dancing within the cerulean of Louis’ eyes, a hailstorm crowding through it. Harry stares back, keeps his bottom lip between his teeth in case it starts to tremble, knows that whatever is about to happen will be a reckoning of sorts. Harry will either swim through the crashing waves of it or he’ll drown under the onslaught.
“You did what?” Louis enunciates each letter, accent swallowing up some of them.
“I got lost. Hid inside of a tree to get away from the storm,” Harry answers slowly, hands twisting in the long hem of his shirt. “When I woke up, I was on the ship. I don’t remember how I got there.”
“And?” Louis asks, a waver just barely there on the end, a crack in the façade.
“He spoke to me about Neverland. About before. Then offered me some clean clothes and had me rowed to shore to return home. But I got turned around on the way back. Zayn found me.” Harry licks over his lips, tastes blood from where he was nibbling on the skin, but he meets Louis’ gaze with his own.
“What did he tell you?” Louis slowly gets to his feet, stepping forward off the platform, coming to stand before Harry. He’s close enough that he can smell the sea salt clinging to Harry, the ocean breeze, the smoke of a cigar left to burn.
It builds up in Harry, an acidic little leak that grows and grows the longer Louis stares at him like that. He isn’t prone to cruelty. Harry isn’t even sure how to be, but he knows what anger tastes like. He is keenly familiar with the tightness of a muzzle around his mouth and the ability to swallow back words. But Louis was the one to free him from that, to rip it off and tell Harry to breathe the first unpurchased phrase. So it only feels fair that Harry unleashes the harshness, the fury out on the one who allowed it.
“Captain Hook told me what you did to him.” Harry doesn’t let his gaze waver, is brave when he glares at Louis, though it doesn’t feel like something to be proud of. It feels closer to opening a new wound. “And offered me a place on his ship when you do the same to me.”
“Did he now?” Louis hisses through his teeth, anger turning the tops of his cheeks red as he clenches his hands before him. “What other lies did that tosser say? Some other fabulous lines? Or were you too busy letting him play dress-up with you? Was that your preferred game of choice?”
There is an implication there, so sharp it bites at Harry, little jolts of pain all down his spine.
“The Captain was nothing but an entirely respectful gentleman.”
Harry doesn’t know why he says it. Doesn’t know why he defends him. Maybe just to get another hit in, fighting words with the way Louis’ is nearly unrecognizable now. Gone is the boy before, the one floating in the water, staring at Harry and kissing him breathless.
“He is a man of equal refinement and poise. Who understands his emotions and isn’t afraid to face them.” Harry pushes his nose into the air, staring down at Louis. “And I told him I’d be happy and honored to join his crew at any time.”
“Traitor!”
It happens so fast. Louis reaches to his hip, to the scabbard on his belt, and yanks out his sword. It’s a long one, jeweled handle flashing gold and ruby, the sharp edge gleaming in the light. He swings it until the tip is balanced just below Harry’s chin, swaying dangerously close to his Adam’s apple, a snarl pulling back his lips.
Someone gasps loudly as the room falls even more silent than before. No one dares move, not even the leaves above them shudder with a breeze. All of the boys are just watching them, eyes shifting from Louis to Harry and then back. Even Zayn’s wings stop fluttering behind him, hand up like he’s about to say something but the words die there.
Harry doesn’t even think he’s breathing. He just stands there – too shocked to move, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of too many emotions at once. Sure, they’ve had sword fights before, playing games of knights and swashbucklers. But this is different. Louis’ anger is so palpable he can almost taste it on the air and Harry’s temper flares, but it’s overshadowed by the heavy weight of disappointment. The bitterness wells up in Harry, that all those times before, all the kisses shared in the cover of darkness, Louis’ hand in his, the pearl necklace pressing into Harry’s sternum – in a single moment has all been ruined.
Blindly, Harry reaches behind him on the wall to where he knows another one is, fingers wrapping around cold steel as he yanks with all his might. The sword comes free and Harry swings it hard, the edge clanging into Louis’, knocking him to the side with a powerful hit. It gives Harry the moment he needs, watching just the barely-there flicker of something across Louis’ expression – shock, awe, regret – before Louis is hardening himself back up.
“Shit,” Calvin whines, leaning heavily into Luke’s side. “Mum and Dad are fighting again.”
It seems to set Louis off who comes back with a swing of his sword. He doesn’t start off easy, putting his weight behind it, slicing through the air to clang loudly in a block. Harry has played swords before – with a stick in the garden of the orphanage, a few playful times with the boys, but this isn’t like that. Louis is a master of fencing, quick on his feet and fast with the way he controls the blade. He pushes forward, making Harry desperate to defend himself, unable to get a true hit in, mostly shielding himself.
Louis backs them up over the floor, doesn’t even fly, just dashes forward with his bare feet in the dirt. Each hit is a calculated move, strength behind them that makes Harry’s arm ache. The anger and tension seem to only fuel him on, though, relentlessly hacking and swinging his sword until Harry is forced to go skittering back, tripping over his feet and the rug on the floor. He crashes down, Louis following after him, sprawled on his back with his sword now clattering away and out of reach.
Looming over him, Louis presses the edge of his sword back to Harry’s throat, stares down the length of it in triumph. He doesn’t look pleased, though, looks furious, with a red face and panting hard. He feels like he’s lost a part of himself somehow, like everything is focused down to this moment, this single breath. The boys are all gasping again, drawing in a quick breath, afraid of what is about to happen. Sprawled on his back, curls a halo around his stunned face, Harry stares up at Louis with wide, betrayed eyes. His bottom lip is trembling, a spot of blood on the side from where he bit it in his fall, hand half stretched for a sword he won’t be able to reach.
He can still taste Harry in his mouth. The phantom memory of Harry’s lips on his, his skin soft in the water, legs around Louis’ waist. He hadn’t ever felt like that before, had never touched anyone or been touched like that. It belongs to Harry now, a piece of him that exists beyond the realm of magic. It’s just for them. And now, it feels like he’ll never have it again.
Below him, Harry lets out a sharp sob, tears already streaming down his face. He looks terrified for a moment, laid out like that, the tip of Louis’ sword bouncing just enough that it catches on his skin. The cut is minimal, barely a drop of blood welling up, but it seems to break whatever standoff they’ve entered into as, suddenly, the room around them breaks into a chorus of noise.
“Louis, no! You can’t do this,” Zayn cries, dashing forward but he doesn’t make it. Oli grabs him around the waist, has to fight against the beating of wings against him.
“Wait! Z, wait!” He tries to shout but then Nizam is pulling on his arm, Jamie trying to get around Stan to move forward, too, a tangle of limbs and shouting. No one dares touch Louis, though, no one even thinks of getting in the way. Even Luke stands there with a hand over his mouth, eyes huge and apologetic. Like he didn’t mean for this all to happen. Didn’t realize what he’s done.
“What are you doing? I’ll fight you myself. Let go of me!” Niall is swearing up a storm, held in place by Calvin and Liam. He’s trying to reach for the daggers on the wall, spitting and kicking, but it’s no use.
Below the end of Louis’ sword, Harry very carefully drops his head back down to the dirt floor. He’s laid out flat now, submitting with a shuddering breath. A tear track slowly rolls down the corner of his eye and gets lost in his hair. With the way he’s fallen, his shirt has come open all the way down the front, the pearl pendant resting up between the sharp dip of his collarbones. There is no point now, no fight left in him, can barely do anything but stare up at Louis, devastated and accepting of it.
“Do it,” Harry whispers, lips barely moving around the words, eyelashes fluttering. “Do your worst.”
It’s a punch to the gut, a sharp stab to the very center of Louis’ chest. Because he can’t. He hadn’t even considered this. All the mean words exchanged in just a day between them and Louis never thought he’d be here, with a sword pressed to Harry’s neck. It doesn’t feel like a game. Doesn’t feel like Louis even knows what he’s doing anymore. That this has all spiraled and all because of that stupid pirate! And how had Louis let it get this far?
Pride chokes his throat, like a vice that won't let him do anything but spit out more vicious words. Angry at Luke for knowing too much and using it against him. Angry at Zayn for not helping him fix this sooner. Angry at Harry for being naïve and so caring that he can't just let it go, burrowing deep inside of Louis and overflowing him with emotion and light. But most of all, angry at himself for doing this. For allowing it to happen. For never telling anyone the real reason that Roland had been kicked out of the Tree House.
"I'm done," Louis snarls, teeth wet with spit, back aching from the way he's hunched over. He straightens, addressing the room at large now, glaring at each of his Lost Boys. His friends. His family. "I'm done with all of you."
"Louis," Zayn's voice cracks, his wings drooping against his spine, folded in on themselves. Glitter falls from his shoulders, from his hands, pixie dust scattering into the dirt, but Louis can't even turn to look at him. Flooded eyes turned from the canopy and then the walls, to the boy left sprawled at his feet, and Louis can't be here anymore.
"Consider your time in Neverland over." Louis' nose wrinkles, his words slurred around the emotion he's barely choking back himself.
Harry moves to get up, presses up on his elbows against the blade, trying to say something – anything – but Louis won't hear it. He yanks back, fumbling to sheath his sword and put distance between them. He won't be able to leave if Harry touches him, if he reaches out, so Louis does the only thing he can think to do. He lets his mind wander to slow kisses in the bright moonlight, to the feeling of Harry's chest rising and falling against him, the first time Harry had let out that loud cackling laugh.
It's enough to flood him with happy thoughts and Louis kicks off the ground and flies up. Up through the Tree House, past the rooms, through the hidden room at the very top, until he breaks through the canopy and into the night sky. Here, he is weightless, free, can ignore the twisting heat inside of his chest and the wails below him and run. Flee from the responsibility of his actions. So he does, flying out to the North of the island, going anywhere to get away from the pain twisting in his gut, from the tears that the cold wind won't let fall.
- - -
It's almost too easy. Like a plot that has fallen right into place. All Roland had to do was put the wheels in motion and suddenly it all worked out for him.
Finding Harry nestled under a tree had been a stroke of cosmic luck, especially when the pirates had brought him to the ship and Roland knew immediately who he was. Well, not who he was, but what he was. A mermaid dress with tear-streaked cheeks, glitter caught up in his hair. There was no way that Louis hadn't been with him, been all over him, probably hand chose him.
Roland has known for a while now the way Louis' magic works, the power that it needs. Children have to believe in him, believe with all their hearts that he's real. And without a storyteller, without someone weaving the tales of adventure and triumph and friendship, Louis' magic depletes. Goes out like a candle left too long in the wind. He's been searching for that storyteller for a while, someone to help him be strong. Roland had known that, had helped look for him back when he was Louis' right hand.
But things had changed.
Hearts are fickle things and Roland's had been sore and full of nothing but devotion toward Louis. Toward the dream, toward the magic, of Neverland and the boy who refused to grow up. But the way Roland had seen it, there were no rules here. No one to tell them right from wrong. When to stop pushing the boundary of acceptable and not. No one but Louis, who stood as king and ruler.
Roland wasn't concerned with knowing the right from the wrong, though. He didn't want to stick to imaginary rules for games or remember that there needed to be limits. Not the way Louis had. Why stop if a game got rough? What was wrong with that? What was wrong with following any base emotions if they are natural and good? It had been Louis to ruin it all. Louis, who had spit some bullshit on love and loyalty and family.
So things changed and Roland found himself exiled to a ship on the coast of the island that he had helped Louis build. Far removed from the life of a Lost Boy, even down to being forced to forget where the Tree House was that he once called home. Which is why fortune must have turned its head toward him when he found Harry.
Harry who had been gullible and trusting. Had been just what Roland knew Louis liked. So, it worked in his favor when he dropped Harry back off at the shore and then followed him into the trees. Far enough back not to be suspected, almost gave up hope as Harry didn't seem to have any sense of direction, but then wouldn't you know it. He came across Zayn and then the other boys. The boys who were loud and stupid enough to make a path directly back to their secret home.
All it took was patience. Waiting until Louis left, hurtling into the night sky, to the symphony of sobs puttered off into quiet snuffling. And then Roland had taken his hook and taped the pattern carefully on the rocks, opening up the Tree House to his crew.
The space inside of the Tree House is dimly illuminated, small sconces on the wall shaped like mushrooms giving off a bioluminescent glow that spreads out along the bark, along the hanging tapestries. Swords and costumes line the walls, a few treasures won by scaling up tall rocks or exploring caverns. There is a basket overflowing by the now cold fireplace, trousers and shirts, a few holey socks spilling over the side. Even the couch that is there - an odd sort of carved wood and cushions - sags with use and a homely sort of bowing in the center. Resting on the seat is a large tome, the front gilded with the words 'Once upon a time etched into the cover.
It's been a long, long time since Roland has been in the Tree House, but he remembers the basic layout now that he's inside. The boys are all sleeping above them, that he knows, but that's not his first stop. He needs the alarm ringer, the nasty little sprite that clings to Louis' shoulder, that whispers in his ear.
He creeps across the floor, hushing his crew behind him, as Roland finds the hole in the wall hidden behind a small rug of red and gold silk. When he pulls it back, the lantern hidden in the wall is dark, though, the cushion left empty. Not even the fairy's gold dust shimmers, the whole space left completely barren of any sign of him.
"Lou?"
A head peeks out over a small ledge, a flash of red hair and sleepy eyes peering down into the darkness. Oli looks barely conscious, the edges of his cheek creased from his pillow. It only takes him a moment, though, a long stare down at the half dozen pirates now crowded into the center of the Tree House, for it all to click.
"Pirates! Hook!" he hollers, scrambling to his feet, knocking painfully into the top of his alcove.
The damage has been done, the alarm raised. Suddenly, the lights turn on full blast and Lost Boys – sleepy and disheveled – are spilling out from the ranks above. They're at the disadvantage, though, caught off guard, half-dressed without their usual gear of clubs and little daggers.
Oli and Stan reach the ground first, going for the spears on the wall, but two of Roland's crew dash forward. They slam the boys against the bark, scrambling to grab arms and hands, roping them behind their back, binding them quickly with rope. Luke and Calvin come tumbling out of their own bedroom, both of them dropping with small mallets in hand. Roland sees them coming, though; he swings hard, catching Calvin in the jaw, sending him pinwheeling back so he crashes over a low basket of blankets.
The hit seems to enrage Luke who slams forward with a sharp hit to one of the crew's faces, blood gushing around his knuckles as he scrambles for Roland. He doesn't make it as a rope wraps around one wrist, yanking him to the side as another pirate wrenches him over, tying him down. One after another, the boys get pulled down, tied up, gagged for the ones that were screaming. A sock gets shoved in Jaime's mouth who swears so belligerently it all slurs into a sound of vowels and sharp bites.
Finally, the lot of them are all huddled together, lined up in a straight line along one wall. It's only when they're down there, all accounted for, that Roland raises his hook high in the air and lets the light gleam over it, turning a scornful gaze toward the boys. He recognizes some of them – the originals, the oldest, but there are others who are new. The blond one on the end who is viciously trying to bite against his gag and the other one, buff around the shoulders, and covered in gold glitter on the side of his face.
"Alright, lads," Roland sneers, the corner of his mouth raised in a knowing smirk. "All accounted for except for one. Where is your lovely Harry?"
None of the boys move. None of them give anything away. They glance out of the corner of their eyes at each other, hesitant and desperate. Roland knows where that loyalty lies, used to have it, knows what it feels like to be in Louis' fold. But he doesn't have time for this. He doesn't want to entertain this sort of bullshit.
"Tell me. Now." Roland reaches out, snatching his hook through the collar of Oli's tunic, tugging him forward. He presses the tip of the steel into his throat, glaring at the other boys. He knows Oli won't give Louis away, would never betray him, but the others might be swayed seeing their brother in danger.
Luke makes a desperate growl behind his gag, rocking forward as Calvin fights against his binds. All of them, fighting to get free, to fight back, but Roland doesn't need their fight. He needs to know where their storyteller is, and he finds out in an unexpected way.
The sound of bells and chimes echoes from above them, screeching as a ball of light comes flying out of the canopy of leaves above them. Zayn’s colors stream like a falling star through the air, hurtling right toward Roland's face. He's holding a small sword, must be swearing with the way he's screeching. Releasing his hold on Oli, Roland swings his hand up, slapping his palm as hard as he can into Zayn's body, swatting him out of the air.
Abram moves after the light, reaching up his hat to catch the fairy in midair. The glow from inside the brim flickers then, dimming a little as the pirate steps forward and presents his hat like a platter before his captain. Roland peers down into the dark fabric, grinning at the picture Zayn makes. He's sprawled on his back, mouth bleeding a little, his right wing bent at an awkward angle, the thin black tattered and torn from a crease.
"Hello, little bug," Roland smirks. He was looking for him first, searching for Louis' little servant. And if he came from above, from that room, there is only one space that Harry must be in.
"You miserable fuck," Zayn's voice wheezes out, barely breaking above the sound of chimes and bells, clanging awkwardly together.
"Missed you, too." Roland reaches in, wraps his hand around Zayn's body, pulling him out. He can feel Zayn's tiny hands trying to hit at him, slap away at his fingers, but the hit did him in. He's delirious, whimpering as Roland's palm wraps around him tighter, raising him above his head. With a violent shake, Roland lets the pixie dust cascade down from Zayn's prone body, the gold flecks covering his long hair, his shoulders.
"Just think happy thoughts, hm?" he muses, carelessly tossing Zayn away from him as he feels his heels start to rise off the floor.
It's been ages since he's been able to fly, since he's felt the rush of air around him. The magic carries him higher and higher, rushing through the tree and then he's breaking through the leaves in a whoosh of air, landing with his boots balanced on a large branch. It's dark up here, only illuminated by the moon and the stars above him.
He finds Harry in what can only be described as a nest. Fabric and blankets and furs and shawls have all been piled into a circle in the corner and there Harry is, nestled in the center of it all, like a pearl in a clam. He's wearing a familiar jumper, bright red and soft, with the sleeves pulled down over his hands, hem falling to mid-thigh. His pink face is scrunched up in sleep, like he's not dreaming well, like he's raw from crying and rubbing at his skin.
Roland doesn't have the patience he did before. He dashes forward, using a discarded scarf on the edge of the bed to wrap around Harry, yanking him clean out of the bed and up into the air. Harry lets out a scream, terrified and confused, flailing his legs and arms. Roland wraps him up tight, though, twists his hand around Harry's wrists, pinning him between Roland's strong arms.
"You!" Harry gasps, scrambling to get his legs down, thighs sliding over Roland's leather pants, fighting against the way he's being held aloft. Roland wants to wrap his hand into Harry’s curls, tug on them, but all that is free is his hook and although he’s vile, he won’t hurt him like that, not yet.
Instead, he tips them over the side of the canopy. They fall out of the top room, plummeting toward the dirt but Roland remembers himself at the last moment. He pulls up short, both of them staggering to the ground. The moment the boys realize that Roland has Harry, they start up yelling again, fighting against the bonds that hold their arms behind their backs. It doesn’t make a difference, though, Roland’s hand tight on the back of Harry’s neck, his hook poised at his throat.
“Silent! All of you!” he bellows, loud enough that even the pirate crew fall into place with wide, shocked eyes.
“What are you doing? Why are you doing this?” Harry gasps, chest heaving as he tries not to press into the sharp edge of the steel at his throat. He glances down at the boys, trying to reassure them just as he trembles.
"Come now, darling. Don't look so surprised." Roland smirks, hand sliding low on his waist, feeling the curve of his body. Harry has little shorts on under the jumper, worn and soft, made of moon silk. “You didn’t really believe that little story I told you? Did you?”
"You liar!" Harry wrenches hard against Roland's grip, snarling at him. "You said you were forgotten. You said you were a good man.”
“Pet,” Roland grins wide, close enough to Harry that he can smell the salt in his hair. “I’m the villain.”
There isn’t time now for them to sit around and chit chat. Roland has plans, things to fall into place, and he’s got all he wants now. It’s time to fall back. So, with a hand wrapped around the ties of Harry’s binds, he shoves him hard, pushing him toward the tunnel leading outside. The other pirates follow suit, getting the Lost Boys onto their feet, marching them out of the Tree House. They need to get back to the ship and they need to go now.
- - -
It hits him all at once. Louis is floating above the mermaid lagoon, staring up at the bright moon. He feels like a dark hole, like there is nothing inside of him but darkness. Guilt is a thorny sort of feeling, pricks into every other part of him inside, grates and grinds into his stomach, his chest, his lungs. Louis tries to twist away from it, to soothe the burn of it, but it comes back just as vicious. It’s never not there, lingering and opening him up to it. He hates it. He wants to run away from it. But he can’t. He can’t get away.
Louis wants to make it right, wants to go back to before when everything felt better. He wants to curl up in bed with Harry, wants to pull him close, wants to kiss him and play that secret game with him again. Louis just wants to be close enough to reach down between them, to feel the pleasure of that heat again, to hear Harry’s breathless laugh and his moans. He wants them to be happy again, to be carefree, to be how it was before.
But as wretched and awful as he feels, that all-consuming pit of anger and shame, it dims in comparison to the feeling of the lights going out. Each Lost Boy burns vibrant and glowing in the back of Louis’ mind, like a beacon, and as warm as it all is, it’s devastating when suddenly all of them are dark. It forces Louis forward, up on his feet, upright and rigid. He looks around through the trees for them, like they’ll suddenly appear, but there is nothing. Not even a sliver of them in all of the island.
Panic settles in. Louis had said he was done, had spoken out in anger, but he had just been angry. Had been striking out in that cruel, violent way that anger always makes you. He hadn’t really thought that the boys would just be – gone. Nothing left of them. It makes Louis’ chest heave, his body rushing forward, flying in a frantic stream from one edge of the island to the other. He has to get home. He has to check on them. What if something happened? What could have happened?
Louis doesn’t even bother using the normal tunnel entrance. He crashes through the leaves to the side of the tree, nearly slamming into the wall with the way he comes in. The mess he makes with the scattered leaves is nothing compared to the disarray that the Tree House is in. Fabric has been ripped from the walls, toys and tools scattered and broken over the floor. There is a splatter of blood on one of the pale birch walls, the couch toppled over on its back with the cushions spread out in all directions.
“Harry?” Louis calls out, glancing around the room, looking for anything – movement, sound, a breath – but the house remains silent. “Oli? Calvin? Liam? Anyone?”
Panic settles into Louis’ body, breaths coming quickly, sweat prickling on his brow. He pushes aside the fallen baskets, the torn blankets, the bowls and cups scattered from the table. There is no trace of the Lost Boys anywhere. It’s not until he lifts a heavy cushion that he hears it – the quiet rustle of a bell. It’s so dim it feels like a faint whisper, like the ghost of a sound, but then it chimes again, just to Louis’ left. He crouches down, peeling back the edge of a carpet, gasping at what he finds.
Zayn lays sprawled on his side, his light so dim it feels like a shadow upon the packed dirt. His wing is broken, the black, inky sheen of it snapped toward the middle, hanging limp and sad down his back. There's dried blood under his nose, a nasty bruise forming on his chest, down over his ribs.
“Z! Zayn, oh fuck. Can you hear me?” Very carefully, Louis cups his hands around the fairy, lifting him off the ground, cradling him close to his chest. “What happened? Who did this?”
“Lou?” Zayn wheezes, lifting his head just enough to get the words out, eyes cracked open. No glitter falls from him, pixie dust and magic run thin.
“I’m here, Zayn. I’m right here. Everything is going to be okay.” Louis chokes, eyes flooded with tears as he stares down at his best friend. His first friend. “You’re so cold, Z. Please. Tell me what happened.”
“Hook,” Zayn struggles to speak, his lips gone blue now, hand reaching out to touch Louis’ finger. “He came… for the boys… I tried…”
“It’s okay. It’ll be alright.” Louis’ voice cracks, his tongue lapping over his lips and tasting the salt of his tears. “I’m here, Z. I’m right here. I’ll fix it. Please just, don’t–“
“I’m sorry.” Whimpering, Zayn curls his knees toward his chest, writhing in the palm of Louis’ hand.
“No. No, Zayn. Please. Please don’t. Don’t leave me,” Louis sobs, lifting Zayn closer to him, pressing his cold body against his cheek. “I need you.”
It’s old magic. The type that gave Louis the power he has, the root of it founded in belief. There is power in knowing of it, power in the thought, in the story. Louis presses his lips to the curve of Zayn’s body, feels the flutter of his heartbeat, his magic stinging against his skin and Louis breathes the words, the beginning of the spell, sending it far and wide away from him. Away from the realm of Neverland. Away from this moment this time. A chant that burrows into the heart of every person that has ever looked up at the night sky and thought about something wonderful.
“I do believe in fairies. I do. I do.”
Across the space and time of this whole blue world, the words can be found on the lips of those who are willing and those who may have forgotten how to be. A child turns over in her cot, whispering the words on the very cusp of dreaming, knowing it to be true. A father sitting before the fire in his home, sipping on his evening tea, murmurs the phrase into the lip of his mug. Maids finally making their way up the back stairs to their rooms murmur it to each other as they pass in the darkness. Two fishermen out on the murky coast take the pipes from their mouths to say the words, to believe in it all. The drunk at the end of the bar shouting it to the crowd at large, for once being echoed with the same, drowning out the roar of the footie match behind him.
A whole world chanting it. Phrase turned bright and static, charged with the power of the song, of the belief. Louis can feel the air around him changing, the roll of it from above, like all the eyes of the earth and beyond have turned toward the heavens, that they are looking into the palm of Louis’ hand – at this fairy. At his fairy. And every fairy that ever was and ever shall be from the first baby’s laugh to the last. So, when Louis shouts it at the top of his lungs, it seems to echo for all eternity.
“I do believe in fairies. I do. I do!”
It’s an explosion, lightning seeming to strike into the center of the tree, magic hot and pulsing as it rips through Louis and into his hands, lifts him off the ground, shoots him into the night sky. It’s euphoria, the passion behind it, the ancient mythos of it all. Louis has never felt so full of it, never been so overwhelmed, and it’s only added to as Zayn suddenly shoots from his palm in a flash of bright, brilliant light.
Louis crows, throws his head back and lets the noise rip from inside of him, elated and relieved, feels it pulsing through him again. He lingers in the sky, arched like the moon itself, watching it dance over the water as Zayn comes to land on his shoulder, warm and alive, intact wings fluttering behind him.
“He took the boys. Said he was going to the ship, I think.” Zayn points to where the Jolly Roger is nestled just off the coast, the water dark around it, like a shadow left to linger on the waves. “They put up a hell of a fight, they did. You’d be proud.”
“Then I guess I should repay them the same, hm?” Louis smirks, the corner of his mouth raised in what could almost be a snarl if looked at the right way. “Let’s go get my Lost Boys back.”
- - -
Harry’s hands have started to go numb, knees aching at being tied to the mast like this. The rest of the Lost Boys have been shackled together and bound around a large collection of barrels on the starboard side of the ship. But Harry has been strung up like an ornament, arms above him, standing against the large mast in the center of the ship. It’s close enough that he can see the boys but he’s still not with them, can’t see if Luke’s bruised face will heal okay, if Oli’s nose is still bleeding. If Nizam is already recovering, still looking a bit dazed. He cares for his boys, his family, he wants to be with them.
Hook has been pacing before him the whole time. Looking at him now, Harry can barely see the Lost Boy he once was. The glamor of his features, the cut of his boyish jaw and the curve of his nose have all become sullen to Harry with the knowledge that he isn’t some heartbroken boy. He’s a man that made a choice, made a decision to betray his leader, his king, his Louis. And for what? A ship made of wood and eternal exile?
“You won’t get away with this. Whatever your plot is,” Harry speaks up, tired of just sitting around and waiting for it to happen. “He’s going to know we’re gone. He’s going to come looking for us.”
“And he’s going to kick your ass!” Calvin adds in. No one has bothered to gag him; ironic, considering he’s the loudest of the boys.
Roland, who had been making short passes in his pacing, pauses before the group, hand and hook clasped behind his back. He turns that gleaming snarl toward Harry, gold teeth and a knowing tilt to his head. Like he has it all figured out. Like it’s all in his plan.
“Pet, of course he will come. I’m counting on it.”
The heels of his boots click on the wooden planks of the ship as Roland comes toward him. All of his crew seem like nothing more than lap dogs, sitting and waiting for his command, but the Lost Boys spring into action, shouting and swearing the closer he gets until they’re bellowing out behind him as Roland reaches up and seizes Harry’s jaw in his grasp. He pulls him in close, so close Harry can smell the smoke on him, see the gleam in his dark eyes.
“Tell me, Harry, was I right, though? Is your heart all broken up by him? You’ve been crying. I can see it.”
“Fuck off.” Harry lets it rip from his mouth, hears Liam and Luke chuckle at the profanity. It’s so rare that Harry loses his cool, that he shifts from passive to aggressive.
“Feisty. A little spitfire, hm?” Roland grins, nose just barely brushing Harry’s. “You didn’t answer the question, though.”
“I bet you betrayed him. I bet you did something awful. That’s why Louis sent you away. That’s why he exiled you here, forgot about you, made the rest of the boys forget about you,” Harry seethes, fighting against his binds. “Took away your ability to fly so you have to cheat to get it back. Good thoughts lift you up. But you’re only full of bad thoughts, aren’t you? They bring you down.”
It sweeps across the deck, the gall of someone actually standing up to the dreaded pirate Captain Hook. Harry doesn’t look afraid, though, he boldly cocks his head up, glaring at Roland with all the anger and betrayal he can. He refuses to be swayed under the prodding at his wounds. Harry is a Lost Boy. He is one of Louis’ chosen. He’s loyal to him – always.
“Wait,” Luke’s soft voice drags out, bewildered as the pieces fall into place. His eyes go wide, mouth left open. “Roland? You’re Roland? But you’re Captain Hook!”
“Always slow on the uptake, weren’t you, Lukey?” Roland drawls, rolling his shoulders back, looking over them at where the Lost Boys are all huddled together, tied close. “Is it that hard to follow? Who else would be powerful enough to be your beloved Louis’ enemy? Who knows him better than I do?”
“But–“ Oli interjects this time, his cheeks red, nose stuffed with blood. He’s got a nasty bruise on his forehead from a well-placed hit. “How? I thought you were gone. Kicked out. I barely remember you at all.”
“And yet here I am. Exiled to the forgotten side of the island, hm? Forgotten by all of you!” Roland swings his hook, slamming it into the wood just shy of Harry’s right cheek. It splinters out, the wood chips raining down over the shoulder of his jumper.
“You deserved it!” Harry snaps vehemently, flinching away as Roland turns his snarl toward him again. “I know you did.”
“You know nothing.” Dislodging his hook, Roland turns away from Harry, turns back to fully face the Lost Boys. “But you do. Some of you. Don’t you remember the games we used to play? The way you were all free then, could run and roam as you pleased. There were no rules. No limitations. No boundaries that we couldn’t cross.”
“You were mean, Ro,” Calvin murmurs, cringes against the words like he’s trying to remember something just past the point of memory. “You broke Oli’s hand. You wanted us to hurt each other. You never stopped.”
“Just because we have freedom here doesn’t mean we get to use it any way we want. We have to be responsible with it, at least to some degree.” Nizam’s bottom lip oozes blood as he speaks, dazed words slurring a bit together. “Louis told you that. Choice with kindness. Loyalty based in love, not fear.”
“He’s a dictator!” Roland screams, flails his arms wide, sending the tails of his coat wide behind him. His hair has come undone from his long ponytail, the dark curls spilling over his shoulders, down his back. “Can’t you see that? He’s a villain himself! Louis controls you. He’s no better than the adults he saved you from. It’s his way or no way. You could be free. You could be anything if you would just follow me.”
“We don’t want to!” Luke yells back, fights up onto his knees, his teeth stained with blood. “We never wanted to! You just couldn’t see it.”
“Black-hearted snake,” Niall hisses behind his gag, eyes narrowed, wiggling to sit forward. “A traitor.”
“A coward,” Liam adds in, spitting the word like a vile curse.
The boys start to move together, fighting to get back up on their feet, aiming to rebel again. It doesn’t matter that they’re battered and tied together. The Lost Boys never give in, never surrender, would never betray Louis and give loyalty to another leader. He is their king, their only king, with allegiance earned with love and family.
“You’ve lost, Roland,” Harry declares, standing proudly even with his hands above his head. “Before you’ve even begun.”
“Oh, you think so?” Roland turns then, the gleam of his gaze flashing in the changing lights above them. The sky is awash in a rainbow of light, magic tangible on the airwaves. Something is happening beyond the edge of the ship, and Roland knows he’s only got to give it a focus to get what he wants. “Well then, no point in keeping my hostages then, hm? Do you think Louis will notice or even care if his beloved storyteller gets thrown into the depths of the sea?”
He swings his hook, the sharp edge slicing through the ropes holding Harry’s hands above his head. He instantly crumples, legs exhausted from being suspended for so long, but Roland doesn’t let him fall. Instead, he grabs him up by the back of his neck, forcing Harry to his feet and then dragging him across the knotted wooden floor. The boys explode in a cacophony of shouts – distressed and swearing – trying to fight against their binds as Harry is pushed onto the wooden plank extending from the edge of the deck.
“Do you see that?” Roland snarls, pushes Harry down so he’s forced to look into the ocean below.
The water is darker here, a pitch-black that swirls with grim light. There are creatures down there, phantoms and monsters, a clicking clock of time churning through the seafoam. It’s a pit of vastness and nothingness, and Harry has to bite his own lip to keep from screaming when the hollowed skeletal face of a crocodile breaks the surface with a loud hiss.
“That’s your beloved’s dreams. That’s what lurks in Louis’ mind, Harry.” Roland slides his lips over Harry’s ear. “And that is where you’ll live forever. In his nightmares. In the darkest part of him.”
“You’re a liar,” Harry hisses through his teeth, clenching them tightly to keep from trembling. “You know nothing of Louis. But I’d rather be a ghost in the back of his mind than to ever stand where you are – his biggest mistake.”
Roland lets out a venomous growl, yanking Harry back up straight and then putting a boot into the center of his back. He shoves as hard as he can, forcing Harry to stumble forward, the plank bowing and swaying under the weight of him. With a meal suspended above it, the waters turn choppy, dark creatures lifting their faces into the night sky to see what they’re about to receive.
Bravely, Harry carefully turns around, looks back at the deck. He ignores the pirates, their faces wide in shock, and instead looks for his Lost Boys. They all had been fighting against their binds, but now with Harry staring at them, they all freeze – too horrified to do much else. It seems there is no way out of this now, no resolution, no end to the game. The reality of it sits like a sour taffy turning all of them sick, overwhelmed and desperate to make it stop.
“Do not be afraid, darlings.” Harry fights to get a smile out, the edge of his mouth lifting faintly. “There is always another story, another adventure. Have faith in that.”
“Go!” Roland commands, lifting his hook up to press into Niall’s throat and Harry staggers a step back.
He tilts his head up, looks up at the swirling night sky above them, turned purple and indigo with the rising light from the east. He remembers what it felt like to coast along the stars, to have Louis’ hand in his, the sunlight spilling across them both. Every moment on Neverland had felt like a dream, like a fantasy come to life, and Harry wonders if this is it – if this is his wake-up call. He wishes he could see Louis again, just once, to kiss him and press into the warmth of his chest, to be filled up with all that light and calm. Louis is a hurricane but Harry had existed in the very center of it all – his calm, his high.
“I’m sorry, Louis,” Harry whispers, closing his eyes for one last shuddering breath, before he lets himself tip backward.
The air rushes up around him, pushes the fabric of his jumper forward, one leg just slightly lifted above the other. Harry can hear the churning growls and delighted snarls of the beasts below, the black hole waiting to swallow him up. He hopes that it will be a quick end, that he won’t have to suffer too long, that none of the boys will hear him if he screams. He’ll try his hardest to be silent, to be brave in the face of unparalleled horror. But just as Harry is certain he’s about to crash into the waves below, something else wraps around him.
Two arms – one at his back and one below his knees – grip him from out of the air, catch him on the downfall just before a set of teeth can close around him. It knocks the air out of Harry a little who throws his eyes open only to be met with Louis’ glittering, blue gaze. He’s grinning, wide enough that it wrinkles just slightly at the corners of his eyes, very pleased with himself as he flies them to the side, out of harm's way and away from the pirates who all rush to the side of the ship to check why there was no splash.
“Louis!” Harry gasps, lifts a hand up to touch his cheek, to feel the warm stubble of Louis’ jaw.
“You didn’t think I’d let you die, did you?” Louis murmurs, flying them up the edge of the ship to rest proudly on the long arm of the mast. “Besides, the ocean can’t kill you. You’re a mermaid, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” Giggling, Harry bumps his forehead against Louis’ in a gentle press. He wants to kiss him, but isn’t sure it’s allowed. Louis takes the choice from him, though, by pulling back, a cocky little lift to his eyebrow.
“I think I’m about done with this tosser, aren’t you?” Louis nudges his face toward the pirates below. “Let’s finish it, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Harry nods, letting Louis shift his grip on him, holding him a little tighter as he swoops down, proudly landing on the railing leading up to the wheel of the ship.
“Oh, Hook, you fucking loser,” Louis croons, triumphant and grinning, lifting Harry a little in his arms. “Looks like you overestimated yourself again.”
“You!” Roland whips around, arm raised high, his free hand reaching for the sword at his hip.
“Me.” Louis swings Harry down, sets him carefully on the deck before unsheathing his own sword.
The pirates who had turned back from peering over the side of the ship try to dash across the deck but it’s too late. The Lost Boys had already been crowing and shouting in triumph at Louis’ return, cheering for their fearless leader coming at just the right time. It’s only doubled, though, at the streak of brilliant light zooming over Louis’ shoulder. Zayn is quick about cutting their binds, dropping swords and clubs at their feet, arming the Lost Boys as they break free.
A sword falls to Harry’s feet – gold and gilded with emeralds and pearls – and Louis spares him a smirk and a little nod, giving him permission to join into the fold of now fighting boys below him. He waits until Harry is down the steps, dashing into the fray with a shout of his own, sword held high, before Louis turns back to Hook. To him, he gives a raised brow and the raising of his sword, arm out and beckoning.
“Come on, Ro. Let’s end it.”
“With pleasure.”
He comes charging toward the helm, sword and hook raised in an attack, but Louis doesn’t bother letting him get that far. He meets him on the stairs, flying forward with a swing of his own blade. They crash together loudly, sharp enough sparks fall from the edges meeting. There is magic here, charging both of them as Louis is quick with his jabs, his technique quick and relentless. Roland has a harder time keeping up, weary bones, staggering along down the steps and back into the fold of the group.
For as angry as Louis is, he stays focused, sprints around Roland with an easy flip of his blade and the aid of flight. He doesn’t have to worry about getting too low, dodging the sharp swings of the other sword. Roland fights like a man with a vengeance, big swings with power behind them, hitting Louis with a force that knocks into his arm. He’s going to be aching after this, elbow sore, but Louis doesn’t care about it at the moment, needs to stay focused.
“Can’t stay on the ground and fight me like a man!” Roland yells when he goes to jab forward and Louis flips into the air with a loud cackle. “You cheat!”
“I’m not a cheater.” Louis mocks, that loud ha ha ha laugh of his. “You’re old. And boring.”
“Old? And whose fault is that?” Roland spins, earns himself a slice over the edge of his shoulder from Louis flying around him. “You betrayed me.”
“You betrayed yourself. You did this. Not me. This was your choice.” Louis shrugs and lands with his feet on the edge of the ship, raising a knowing eyebrow at Roland. “Come on, Ro. Give us a good fight then.”
“A good fight?” Roland pants hard, wipes his hand over his brow. He’s breathing rough, already exhausted but spurred on by the anger, by the pure hatred for the boy now grinning at him, all cocky and self-assured. “You’re a coward who won’t fight me. Just like you were a coward who sent me away before I could win.”
“A coward?” Louis lets out a laugh, cutting himself short with a snarl and a raised brow. “The only coward I see is you. And you’re going to lose this battle just as you’ve lost every other one. You’ve already lost.”
“No!” Roland screams, desperate and wailing. He reaches up at just the right moment, snatching the ball of light from the sky. Zayn had been soaring by, offering help to any of the boys who had needed it, but under Roland’s grip he’s powerless to fight against the violent shaking. Fairy dust pours over his head, down along his curls, over his shoulders. It’s enough – magic poignant and strong – to lift him off the ground with a triumphant shout, tossing Zayn carelessly to the side. The fairy is miraculously caught by Liam, though, who cradles him close to his chest.
“It’s Hook’s time now!” Roland bellows, flying up into the air with a victorious shout, cackling as his sword clangs into Louis’, forcing him back. “Not the only one who flies now, are you, Lou?”
Letting out a delighted laugh, Louis presses his bare feet into Roland’s chest, sending him careening back through the air and into the fabric of a sail, the sound of ripping heard as his hook tries to catch him from falling too fast, splitting it open.
“You want to fly?” Louis smirks, spreading his arms. “Let’s fly then! Come on.”
They spiral into the air above the ship, swords and hook clanging together in a mashup of sharp sounds. Louis has been flying forever, was born with air beneath his feet, but Roland is slower, less sure of himself. They end up slamming into the lookout point, Roland’s hook catching on the hilt of Louis’ sword and bringing him close.
“I know what you are,” Roland snarls, spitting the words into Louis’ face as Louis answers with a loud laugh, pushing off of him and spinning out into the sky.
“I’m the best there ever was!” Louis cackles, getting another jab that leaves the sleeve of Roland’s shirt in tatters, blood spilling down to coat over his hook, dripping there.
It seems to only spur Roland forward who pushes his weight behind his blow, sending Louis back down toward the ship. They spiral into another sail, fabric acting as a cushion as Louis uses it to rebound and get a few hits in. Roland is gaining ground, though, giving it a good fight, using both of his arms to fight against Louis’ quick fighting style.
“You’re a tragedy waiting to happen.” Hissing through his teeth, Roland shakes loose the cut edge of his sleeve, glaring at Louis from across the air.
“A tragedy? I am a triumph.” Louis scoffs, rolling his eyes as he starts to rush forward again, sword raised with a devilish grin. “No one does it better than me. No one ever can.”
“He was leaving you, Louis.” The words make Louis pause in mid-air, gaze drifting down to where Harry is engaged in a fight with a surly-looking pirate. He’s got the sleeves of the jumper pushed back, bare feet skidding over the wood as he fights with the long sword. “Your Harry was leaving you.”
“No.” Louis shakes his head, can barely get the words out from the gasping breath left choked in his throat.
“What could you possibly have given him, Louis?” Roland asks, mockingly sweet as he swings his sword, Louis barely remembering to block it. “He would rather have gone back to that cold, miserable world than stay here with you.”
“That’s not true. Stop it.” Louis pushes Roland away, spirals back until he’s got his body against the mast, blocking as Roland comes forward again, hook locking onto Louis’ sword.
“You don’t even remember what love is, Louis. Why would he stay?” Roland smirks, pressing down into Louis’ chest but the boy gives a shout of anger, shoving as hard as he can and sending Roland flailing back across the air.
“I’d never let him join you! Never!” Louis rushes forward, slams into Roland so hard he goes spiraling back and bounces off a large coil of rope, the weights dangling down. But Roland isn’t done; he spins away, seeks refuge on the other side of the ship.
“It’s not me, though, is it? He wants to get away from it all. Your world. Your Neverland. You.” Roland raises an eyebrow, a knowing smirk on his face. “Let’s take a peek into the future, shall we? Where your Harry is in his bedroom, a long way away in that forgotten world.”
“He’ll leave the window open for me. He always will,” Louis counters, dashing forward to try and attack. He’s distracted, though, gets caught up with Roland’s hook around his wrist, slicing into his skin, blood trickling down his arm.
“He’s locked it.” Roland grins, wrenching hard so he cuts Louis deeper. He manages to get away, kicking as he flies back. “Never opens it now.”
“I’ll call out to him,” Louis’ voice trembles, his tone gone desperate. He’s falling out of the sky, magic wavering as he tries to fight back. “Harry! Harry!”
“He can’t hear you.” Roland hits him hard, a punch with the side of his sword. “He can’t see you.” Another jab sends Louis careening into the side of the mast. “He’s forgotten you.”
“No. He won’t. He never will.” Louis screams, making a desperate attempt to grab at Roland but his bloody hand slips over the pirate’s shirt, staining it red. “Harry!”
“But what is this I see?” Roland gloats, leaning in like he’s whispering a secret, words just for Louis to hear. “There is another in your place.”
“Stop it. Please,” Louis wheezes, struggling to get away as Roland sinks his hand into Louis’ hair, wrenching his head back.
“He’s called husband.”
Roland slams Louis back into the edge of the wooden bar, hard enough that the sword in Louis’ hand goes careening to the deck below him. Its owner follows, Louis dropping out of the sky with no magic to break his fall, no happy thoughts to lift him up. He collides with the deck in an audible thump, made even louder by the battle around them suddenly stopping, both Lost Boys and pirates turning to look in horror.
Louis pushes himself up slowly, gets on his hands and knees before Roland is there, gripping him up by the top of his hair. He yanks him to his feet, using his height and his weight to shove into Louis, throwing him across the ship and down against the mast. He’s not done, though, following after him with a loud cry. Louis doesn’t fight back, just watches with dazed eyes as Roland’s hook raises high into the air and swings down, hitting Louis solidly in the face. This time, when he falls, Louis crashes to the ground with an audible cry, laid flat on his back, a trickle of blood coming from the long scratch on his brow.
A scream – desperate and high – rips out of Harry’s throat as he dashes forward, sword raised. He’s met by Abram, though, who grabs him around the ribs, lifting him clear off the ground and back into him. They go careening, Harry refusing to stop wiggling, wailing as he tries to break free. It spurs the other boys into action who all try to rush forward but it’s no use. The pirates are faster, know what’s coming.
“You die, Louis,” Roland smirks, the tip of his sword tracing up the line of Louis’ stomach, over his sternum, to his throat. “Alone and unwanted.”
“No!” Harry shrieks, kicking up his legs, fighting hard enough that another pirate has to step forward and help Abram brace his arms around Harry’s waist.
“Ah! Wait.” Roland grins wide, leering down at Louis as he waves his hand toward his first mate. “How could I forget?”
Abram practically tosses Harry, throwing him to the side so he slams into Roland’s side, bare feet skidding over the wood. There is blood on his thigh from a cut, the very edge of his silk shorts poking out from the hem of his jumper stained with it. Heaving, Harry stares down at Louis with wide, frantic eyes, still trying to wiggle away until Roland grabs his chin, forcing him to look up.
“A moment of silence lads, I think.” Roland leans in, close enough that his nose brushes along the slope of the other boy’s. “For Harry’s goodbye.”
And with that, he throws Harry down, shoves him to collide with the deck below, sprawled out on his side next to Louis. The whole ship has gone deathly silent, all in anticipation for what is about to happen. Flat on his back, Louis doesn’t even turn his head as Harry curls into him, pressing the length of his body along Louis’ right side, breath coming in soft gasps.
“Louis,” Harry whispers, feels the phantom burn of tears in his eyes, already feeling them on his cheeks. “Please, Lou. Not like this. You can’t.”
For as heartbroken as the words come out, Louis doesn’t flinch, doesn’t seem to even hear him. He’s lost in the darkness of his own mind, his own despair, the horror of the truth that Roland had spat at him.
“Remember. It was supposed to be you and me and the sea. Forever. That’s what you said,” Harry whispers, reaching forward with a trembling hand to lift Louis’. He brings it over, fits the curve of his jaw into Louis’ palm, guides his thumb to rest in the shallow dip of Harry’s dimple. “Please, Louis. You have to know. These are for you. They’ve always been yours. They always will be.”
He leans down, closes his eyes as a tear drips from his eyelashes and onto Louis’ cheek, fitting his lips gently around Louis’ own. It’s a chaste kiss, a slow one, with Harry sucking in a slow breath through his nose, curved over Louis so his curls fall down around them, acting as a sort of curtain. Still, Harry doesn’t release Louis’ hand, keeps his thumb right there – right where it always belongs.
Harry falls back with a little sniffle, openly weeping now, miserable tears spilling all over his face. But with the fear and the desperation, it turns warmer – a glimmer of hope – as Louis’ blue eyes slowly snap toward him. The air around them crackles, a roll of thunder on the horizon, as glimmering blue and green light roll from around Louis’ edges – like an aura radiating from the very core of his being.
“His secret kiss,” Calvin gasps distantly, an awed sort of noise coming from the boys around him.
“It’s a powerful thing,” Jaime sing-songs, glancing around at the brilliant changing colors of the sky. It seems all of Neverland is surging, power growing and growing as Louis turns cosmically bright.
“Love,” Zayn murmurs, crouched down by Liam’s side, his full size now. “Love is a powerful thing.”
“No!” Roland screams, stomping forward, but it’s already too late.
It’s an explosion of magic – hurtling Louis straight into the sky, the air rushing around them, so loud that all the boys fall to the deck with hands over their ears, screaming and laughing as their leader soars like a comet up toward the moon. Light explodes from him, shatters over the whole world, elation turning the heavens into a swirl of rainbow light. And in the center of it all, Louis crows at the top of his lungs.
“I don’t fucking care. I won. I won!” Roland comes crashing across the deck, sword raised high above his head. Harry only has a minute to glance over, a shocked cry leaving his throat as he throws his arms up, certain that he’s about to be struck down.
Louis is already there, though, soaring through the air and colliding with Rolland with full force. It sends them both careening across the deck, shoving through the crowd until they’re both out on the plank, the wood swaying and bowing under their combined weight. Below, the dark creatures from before gnash their skeletal teeth, growling and hissing at having another meal dangled before them.
“You mean nothing. You are nothing.” Roland gasps, wheezing as he tries to get his footing beneath him.
“Nothing without them,” Louis agrees, floating up, landing gingerly on his feet and sending a look over his shoulder. His lads are all standing together, huddled with Harry in the center. They are his family, his crew, his Lost Boys. And it’s true. Without them, without their loyalty and their belief, Louis would mean and have nothing.
“You’re over, Roland. The game is over,” Luke calls out, throwing his arm around Oli and Calvin. “You lying snake.”
“Coward!” Nizam slurs, echoed by both Jaime and Stan.
“Traitor,” Harry murmurs, Niall and Liam pressed to either side of him.
“Done for,” Louis adds with a brilliant smirk, the corner of his mouth pulled back to show his teeth.
“No. I won. I planned it out and I won! Fuck you, Louis! Fuck you!”
It all happens so quickly. Roland swings his right arm, hook gleaming in the bright light, aiming right for Louis' grinning face. But it's a wild attempt, too desperate and furious to really consider the way he's flailing. Roland throws himself into it just as Louis flies back, dodges the blow with a sharp inhale. There isn't enough time to catch him, not enough space to intervene as Roland's body sways to the side and goes careening over the edge of the wooden plank.
He doesn’t even make it to the water before sharp teeth come out of the darkness, closing around the fold of his body. One moment Captain Hook is falling and the next he is gone, swallowed up by the very darkness that filled his heart.
For as quiet as the whole world has grown, the sound of a relieved sigh seems to be all it takes to break the tension. Louis lands back on the deck of the ship to the growing roar of the Lost Boys, the pirates around them unsure of what to do, awkwardly standing there while glancing around at one another. It’s bittersweet, really, a sort of end to things that feels like nothing and yet everything was resolved. But those are heavy thoughts for an old mind, and Louis has no time for it.
He moves forward, lets the boys – Luke, Oli, Stan, Calvin, Nizam, Liam, Niall, Jaime – wrap him up in hugs, touch his shoulder, shake his hand. Louis returns the gestures, feels the relief flooding through him, through all of them, after being so certain that the end was upon them. But as good as it feels to be in the hold of his boys, there is something else he needs to do first.
He finds Harry in the center of it all, still a little teary-eyed and bloody, but grinning – open-mouthed and dimpling. Louis thinks of nothing but this, of lifting his hands up, pressing his thumbs right into the curve of Harry’s hidden kiss and slotting their lips together.
“I’m sorry,” Louis murmurs, keeps close to nuzzle his nose against Harry’s, wanting to breathe him in. It’s not enough that he can feel him in his arms, he has to know, has to always know that Harry is here with him. “I’m so sorry. I never wanted you to go. I should have told you–”
“It doesn’t matter now.” Harry lets out a wet, helpless little laugh, stroking his fingers over Louis’ jaw. “What matters is we’re safe. You’re safe.”
“It does matter. You matter so much. Harry, I’ve been looking and waiting for you for so long and to lose you–” Louis feels the tears pool in the corners of his eyes, hot and festering. He feels like he’s cried more today than he has in his whole life. ”I couldn’t–”
“I’m right here, darling,” Harry reassures, bumps his forehead into Louis’. “I promise. The rest can be sorted later. But I’m right here.”
“I know.”
He can’t seem to stop kissing Harry, pecking over his cheeks and down along his jaw, up to his forehead. Louis doesn’t care that the boys are shifting around them, that the pirates have started to sneak away, slipping into the shadows of the ship. They were Roland’s make-believe anyway and who knows where imaginary friends go when the creator is no longer here.
“Louis,” Harry’s fingers trace through Louis’ hair, thumb brushing over the long strand of satin still tied into his earring – their first kiss.
“We’ll talk about it more later, okay?” Louis wraps his arm around Harry’s waist, looking around at the Lost Boys – his boys, his lads, his best mates. A family chosen by Louis, bonded by loyalty and friendship and trust. It wasn’t forced by blood or by duty but by the strongest magic of them all – love.
“Let’s go home.”
- - - Epilogue
Warm sunshine spills over the long grass, the blades swaying in the lazy breeze coasting through the trees. It’s calm here, a kind of hidden place that has been carved out with diligent hands and careful work. Harry’s place – a garden filled to the brim with all of his favorite things, crafted by his own imagination. There are pockets like this all over Neverland now, places for each boy, some shared and some private, as beautiful and unique as each boy’s mind can make it.
Stepping around a small patch of honeysuckle and violets, Harry sets his basket down into the soft earth and begins to pluck the sweet strawberries from the vines growing up the trunk of a wide, large rowan tree. The white flowers had given way just a few days before to the buds and now they hang, large and red, their little black seeds looking like tiny polka dots all over. Harry can smell them, sugary sweet, as he plucks one after another, nestling them carefully inside the wicker.
When he’s finished with that one, he gets up on his feet again to go to the next vines, but he’s distracted by a noise. It sounds almost like the faint sounding of bells and then just as Harry goes to step, a face is popping out of the tree before him.
“Hello, darling.” Louis swings upside down from a low-hanging branch, his knees hooked over the bark as he stares down at Harry, a wide grin spread over his handsome face.
“Oh!” Harry gasps, a hand to his chest, nearly upending the basket of freshly plucked strawberries. “You scared me! I thought you were playing hide and seek with the boys.”
“I am.” Louis shrugs, unbothered as he swings his body on purpose, abs flexing as he curls up and then down again. “I’m hiding but they never find me anyways. I’m too clever.”
“Hm, I’m sure,” Harry teases, making a show of rolling his eyes before he straightens himself. “Well, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Can’t.” Louis holds out his arm, stopping Harry. “You haven’t paid the toll.”
“The toll?” Raising a brow, Harry reaches up to poke Louis’ stomach, hoping the tickle will distract him but Louis seems determined.
“Ah! No. You have to pay the toll to pass.” Louis swats his hand away, careful to keep his balance perched upside down on the branch. “I require payment.”
“Payment?” Harry asks, letting out a giggle as he tries to school his features into annoyance instead of amusement.
“Yes. I require one strawberry and one kiss,” Louis states matter-of-fact, lifting up his hand and holding it out to Harry, palm up.
“Uh huh.”
Harry has been in Neverland long enough to know when Louis is actually demanding something and when he wants to play a game. It’s been a while, though, since he’s toyed the line between and Harry is nothing if not clever himself. He plucks a strawberry from his basket, the largest one with the sweetest juice, and lifts it to his own mouth. With his gaze fixated on Louis’, he lets his tongue come out to grace over the tip before drawing it into his mouth, biting through the soft meat of the fruit. With the taste still lingering on his tongue, he steps forward, cupping the back of Louis’ head in loving hands and presses a kiss to his lips.
It's strange to do it upside down, sloppy and eager, both of them dragging their tongues together. Everything tastes like strawberries and sweet water, like summertime. And Harry lets out a soft little moan when Louis nips at his bottom lip, a hand coming down to scratch through his curls.
After everything they’ve been through, Harry had been pleasantly surprised that this still comes naturally to him. They’ve been working on communicating, working on saying what they mean, in getting it right the first time instead of avoiding it or playing a game. Even the other boys seem to take note, leaving them be when Louis and Harry sneak away to the top of the Tree House or to go lounge by the water. They’re healing each other, healing together, moving forward.
“I think that was cheating,” Louis pants when he’s finally able to pull away, mouth stained red from the juice and the kiss.
“Not cheating. Just cunning.” Harry giggles, a blush high on his cheeks.
“You are very cunning, darling.” Slipping from the branch, Louis floats upright, keeping close so he can hold Harry’s head tenderly in his hands, sprinkling kisses over his cheeks, his jaw, his nose. “And brilliant. And beautiful. And kind. And funny. And ridiculously sexy–”
“Louis!” Harry presses his palm over Louis’ still moving mouth, cheeks gone crimson now, glancing around as if the whole troupe of Lost Boys will come spilling out of the tree line.
“I’m not wrong,” Louis mumbles behind his makeshift gag, grinning so hard the corners of his eyes crinkle.
“Hush, you.” Rolling his eyes again, Harry keeps his palm close, just resting it instead on Louis’ collarbone. “Was there a real reason for you coming to find me or were you just bored?”
“Bored. Missed you.” Louis shrugs, leans in again to steal a quick kiss. “And to remind you.”
“Remind me?” Harry asks, brow coming down into a furrow. “Remind me what?”
“It’s time,” Louis answers, the corner of his mouth raising in a grin when Harry’s eyes go wide, gasping sharply.
“You don’t mean–”
“I do.” Louis nods quickly, arms suddenly full as Harry hurls himself forward to wrap his arms and legs around Louis’ waist.
“Can we go now?” Harry gasps, shocked and anxious, already bouncing on his heels.
“Let’s get cleaned up and then yes. It’s nearly time there.”
- - -
If anyone were to look up at the sky at just past the stroke of midnight, they might have seen a peculiar sight. A streak of light – much like a falling star – slipping from the edge of the moon and down to the sleeping streets of London. It’s a familiar street, a quiet one, with a horse and cart making its way slowly down the cobblestone. The attic window of the orphanage has been left open this evening, the room dark within, but just enough moonlight spills across the floor to illuminate it.
Bare feet land on the ledge outside and then slip inside. A dress made of ocean silk, woven by mermaids, the color of the sea right before dawn drapes its way over the body of the first guest. Nestled in his hair is a crown of seashells and pearls, curls spilling over his shoulders and down onto his back. He’s glowing faintly, just a little around the edges, matching the other behind him. This one is a fantastic sort of boy – trousers hem loose and torn from play, a belt of leaves and vines across his chest to keep his sword in place. He’s holding onto the first one, hands clasped tightly, as they settle on the short bench just inside the window.
A soft gasp breaks the silence around them, a little face turning from where it was hidden in the shadows. Gray eyes widen in the darkness and a small boy sits up. He’s deathly pale with dark bruises lining under his eyes, making him look perpetually exhausted. It seems to melt away from him, though, when he meets the stare of the two guests now in his bedroom.
“Harry!” Casper shouts, swinging his legs down and nearly falling from the bed in his haste. “Harry, you’re here!”
“Hello.” Keeping his hand in Louis’, Harry crouches down, catches the little boy in a tight hug. “It’s been so long. You’ve grown so big.”
“Not so big. Just six years old now,” Casper giggles, a rattling sort of sound in his chest. “Mr. Corden says too big and I’ll be sent to the mines early.”
“Oh.” Harry flinches a little, reaching up to gently push a strand of Casper’s platinum hair out of his face. He hasn’t heard that name in so long, the very sound rattles around in him. Seeming to sense the shift, Louis is very careful when he crouches down beside him, distracting Casper’s attention with a well-placed grin and the gleam of fairy light just over his shoulder.
“Would you like to go somewhere that Mr. Corden can’t go?” Louis asks, voice soft and gentle. “I know a place that is full of magic and sunlight. You can run and play and be free to do whatever you like. No more chores. No more hunger.”
“No mines,” Harry adds, touching Casper’s sharp jaw.
“Oh, yes. Please.” Gripping his tiny fists together, Casper rocks forward, big eyes seeming to grow even wider only for the light to go out in the next moment. He shrinks in on himself, crestfallen and sorrowful.
“What? What’s wrong? What is it?” Harry asks, confused as he reaches for him, holding Casper’s arm.
“But I can’t go without my friends.” He glances over his shoulder, sweeps over the other beds full of sleeping boys. They’ve crammed more up here since Harry lived in this room. The orphanage must be full.
“Who said anything about leaving them?” Louis asks, pushing himself up to stand tall and proud with a hand on his hip and the other leading Harry to his feet. “Come on, lad. Get the rest up. We’ve got a lot of pixie dust to pass out and then to teach you to fly.”
“Teach us to fly?” Casper gasps and then he’s turning, dashing over the wooden floor to the next bed, shaking the sleeping child inside. “William! Will, wake up! There is a boy here who is to teach us to fly!”
“Do you mean it?” Harry asks, curves his body into Louis’ side. Of course he had asked for it, had brought it up one night as they laid together in their bed, no clothes between them but entwined like two beings made into one. He had always wanted to return to the orphanage, had thought about his friends here, the other boys, but he doubted that Louis would ever agree to it. Why would he when he as the best crew in all the worlds?”
“Of course I mean it, darling.” Louis gives a little shrug, hand warm on the center of Harry’s back. “What’s a few more Lost Boys? We have a whole island. I have you now. That’s all I’ll ever need.”
“You do have me.” Harry grins, nose wrinkled in fondness as he sets a kiss to Louis’ cheek. “And I have you.”
Louis can’t help but kiss him then, cup Harry’s cheeks in his hands, his thumbs in their place resting over his dimples, and kiss him until nothing seems to matter at all.
In a moment, he’ll help Zayn divvy up the dust, get the whole lot of the boys ready to fly away to Neverland. To a world without pain and without despair, where the sun is always clear and there are rivers that sing to you. Every day is whatever you want it to be, whatever your imagination can provide.
But for now, Louis pulls back with a wide grin and breathes words against Harry’s smile.
“Besides, darling, to live happily ever after will be a mighty big adventure.”