At Last (My love has come around) - ifiwasabluebird (2024)

Chapter 1: New era

Chapter Text

The world was in the midst of change.

The echoes of the sixties still reverberated, but a sense of transformation hung in the air, a feeling that everything was about to shift, including Harry’s life.

His time at Oxford had been both exhilarating and confusing. When Harry had first set foot on the hallowed grounds of Oxford University, he was a picture of youthful exuberance, his spirit untamed and his dreams boundless. He could never have fathomed the course his life would take, nor the irrevocable changes that lay ahead.

The departure of Louis had cast a shadow over Harry's heart, leaving a bitter residue of regret and longing that seemed impossible to wash away. Their connection had been instantaneous, undeniable, and transformative. In the quiet corners of their shared world, they had found each other, and in each other, they had discovered something that dared not speak its name. Their clandestine moments were fragile and secret, locked away from the world's judgement.

But life moved forward, as life does, and eventually, Harry had to keep going on with on his own.

That summer, right after his first graduation, he had been back in London for the holidays and just like when he was only just a boy, he was imprisoned by the plans his father had crafted for him. The Styles empire demanded an heir, and Harry was ensnared by stacks of legal files and case papers, a prisoner of his father's ambition. Lavish dinners, elegant pubs, and endless rounds of drinks with his father's acquaintances became his new norm, all under the scrutinising gaze of a father who cared more for appearances than his son's true desires.

In these moments, his thoughts wandered, drifting to memories of Louis and the stolen moments they had shared. But each time, the harsh reality of his father's expectations brought him crashing back to Earth. He found himself sitting in church, flanked by his parents, his mind torn between prayers and the forbidden desires that he had buried deep within.

The second year rolled on, and his dorm mate shifted. No longer the boisterous Nicholas, it was Miles who now occupied the space next to him. A friend from the past, familiar yet changed.

One fateful night, after a pub outing, as they stood in their room, Miles had confessed his knowledge of Harry's ache for Louis.

The familiar routine of shedding their uniforms and preparing for bed was tainted by the weight of unspoken words and unexplored emotions, only brought up by too much whisky. Miles had always been a friend, a comforting presence in the backdrop of his life. But that night had been different.

"I know you miss him," Miles had said softly, his voice carrying a mix of sympathy and vulnerability.

Harry's gaze had flickered up, meeting Miles' eyes for a moment before he lowered his gaze to his trembling fingers. His heart raced, his mind scrambling to decipher Miles' intentions. The truth he had hidden so carefully was now exposed, leaving him feeling vulnerable and exposed.

He had continued to undress, feeling the weight of Miles' gaze on him. It was as if every layer of fabric he removed revealed another layer of his inner turmoil. His white shirt was discarded, revealing a torso that had matured beyond the year he spent pining for Louis. His body had changed, his muscles more defined, his frame more imposing.

Miles' hand found its way to Harry's wrist, a touch that was meant to be grounding but only served to intensify the tumult of emotions within Harry. He had closed his eyes for a moment, his breath hitching, before finally meeting Miles' gaze again.

"I don't—" Harry had tried, his voice wavering, but his words were cut off by Miles' gentle assurance.

"I can be whatever you need me to be," Miles had answered, his voice barely more than a whisper. And then, with a daring that was uncharacteristic of him, he leaned in, his lips brushing against Harry's.

Harry's heart was racing, a flurry of conflicting emotions surging within him. He had wanted to pull away, to retreat into the safety of his memories of Louis. But the warmth of Miles' presence, the companionship that had sustained him through these lonely months, made him hesitate.

Miles' lips had met Harry's, tentative and searching. Harry's breath had caught in his throat, fear swirling within him. But he had found himself responding, allowing the kiss to linger, to deepen. As the intensity had grown between them, Harry's thoughts drifted, his mind weaving a delicate tapestry of memories and fantasies. With a soft, breathless sigh, Harry allowed himself to be guided backward, his body sinking onto the bed. The weight of the moment, the comfort and distraction that Miles provided, allowed Harry to close his eyes and escape into a realm where Louis' absence was temporarily forgotten.

Over time, this newfound connection between them would become a refuge, a place where Harry could momentarily escape the void left by Louis. It wasn't love and it was not even close to the way he had felt with Louis, but it was something. It was a way to numb the ache, to quiet the longing, if only for a little while. And so, in the privacy of their dorm room, amidst the remnants of their Oxford years, Harry and Miles would often lose themselves under the sheets.

And as the third and final year of university arrived, his once boyish frame had fully matured into that of a man. His shoulders had broadened, his jawline had sharpened, and his confidence had grown alongside his physical changes. Compliments were met with a knowing smile, and playful flirtations were exchanged with passing strangers.

Harry had become a jovial presence, the life of parties, a man who exuded an air of self-assuredness.

But as graduation approached, he found himself still longing for change. He was not ready to take on his father’s firm, to work with him and to play the perfect son. He knew that once he would be home without the excuses of school, his father would press him to marry, just like he had done to his now pregnant sister.

So during his last day, while he was packing his bags, Miles clinging onto his naked back after one last moment spent in bed together, he clutched onto his acceptance letter for Harvard. The call of a new horizon had beckoned Harry to America. It was a chance to escape the path his father had mapped out for him. The streets of America felt more open, the air more liberated, and the people more accepting.

The fight that had ensued was terrible. The worst he ever had with his genitor. He had smashed the letter on the table during dinner, the moment his father had asked him about work. His dad's fury had fallen on him, even his mother not being able to help him during this moment. They had shouted at each other, Harry now taller than his father, had stood his ground, voice loud and deep as he kept on affirming, he would go, no matter what. His father had punched him, right in the jaw, for his lack of respect and obeisance, but Harry had stood still, never backing down. Still, he got his way. When the next morning he had gone down for breakfast, his father had simply said one sentence to him.

‘’I will accept to let you go if only you promise me that when you’ll return, you’ll get married.’’

So he flew out.

At Harvard, Harry's first steps felt like stepping into a vibrant new world. The campus buzzed with the energy of students from diverse backgrounds, each bringing their own unique perspectives, cultures, and stories. For Harry, it was exhilarating to be surrounded by this kaleidoscope of differences, to witness firsthand the clash and fusion of ideas from all corners of the globe. His confidence and charismatic demeanour quickly attracted a circle of friends who gravitated toward his magnetic presence.

With grades that remained consistently impressive, Harry found a sense of belonging in his academic pursuits. Professors acknowledged his dedication, a refreshing departure from the relentless pressure he had felt during his time at Oxford. The weight of expectations began to lighten, allowing him to immerse himself in his studies without the constant fear of falling short.

Weekends unfolded with a new sense of freedom. The intoxicating allure of Boston's nightlife pulled him and his new friends to bars and clubs, where they embraced the revelry of youth. Nights blurred into mornings as they laughed, danced, and occasionally indulged in substances that were as foreign to him as the people around him.

But then, he met a boy. A Spanish boy with hazel eyes and tanned skin, whose presence ignited something within Harry that he hadn't felt in a long time. He was smaller, his frame more delicate, his demeanour more effeminate. It was a combination that contrasted sharply with Harry's own masculinity. He would never admit that the mere reason he had been attracted to the boy was because his loud voice and flamboyant attitude reminded him of a certain blue eyed boy. But deep down, he knew.

Together, they explored the city's hidden corners, their laughter echoing through dimly lit streets. They had stumbled upon a hidden gay bar, a sanctuary that offered acceptance and solace. Bottles of alcohol flowed freely as they surrendered to the night, the weight of their secrets temporarily lifted. Amid the laughter and camaraderie, Harry let himself be pulled into the moment, letting the haze of alcohol and euphoria wash away the ghosts that had haunted him for so long.

As the weeks went on, that gay bar became a beacon for Harry. It was a place where he could momentarily shed the guise he had crafted, where he could exist without the pretence of being someone he wasn't. With each visit, he encountered more people who, like him, were seeking connection and acceptance.

He learned to discern the subtle cues that betrayed others' hidden desires, becoming adept at recognizing the silent language of shared experiences.

Still, this ache in his body was never silent, forcing him to always seek something more with nameless strangers, always looking behind him when would leave their houses on his way to the campus.

But each encounter left him feeling more hollow, aching for something he had once known.

As he navigated this new world, Harry took on a careful role, masking his own identity behind a facade of heterosexuality.

He observed and learned, adopting a veneer of straightness that allowed him to blend in seamlessly with his surroundings. That is how he found himself drawn to older women, their attention momentarily quenching the ache that still lingered deep within. He would let their laughter, their touch, their presence wash over him, attempting to convince himself that this was what he wanted, what he needed. Because contrary to the young female student that would cling to him on the campus, those older ladies would never ask too many questions. They rarely hoped for something more, something deep. They would see him, tall and broad, confident and smart, and would simply beg for him to take them home. It was easy.

His interactions with men who piqued his interest were kept discrete, the truth of his desires hidden beneath layers of secrecy and self-preservation. In this way, he played the game of appearances while quietly carving out a space for himself within a community that understood the struggles he dared not share openly.

Years had passed in a whirlwind for Harry, an ephemeral period that now felt like sand slipping through his fingers. As he stood before his packed bags, his heart was heavy, tears shimmering in his eyes. The time had come to leave behind the life he had come to embrace, to return to England, and to confront the expectations that had always loomed over him.

His friends had rallied around him in these final moments, a testament to the connections he had forged in this new land. Julie, in particular, had seen through the facade he had constructed from the start. She had understood without needing words, a kindred spirit who had offered silent support. He never asked her, but he was aware that she knew. And when they were all organising their trip back to their own countries, Julie was the one to propose a last trip.

Since they all had to go to New York for their flights, she organised a weekend trip as a wholesome farewell.

That last weekend had been a blur of laughter, music, and cheap liquor. In a rundown New York hotel room, the small group had danced as if they were the only people on earth, the mattresses pushed together to create a makeshift dance floor. Amid the chaos, Julia had found Harry on the fire escape, a quiet moment of connection beneath the moon's gentle glow.

"I'm like you," she had said, her voice soft, a revelation that echoed in the still night air. It was in those words that Harry found solace, a reminder that he was not alone in his struggles, his desires, and his fears.

The morning of July 28th, 1970, was greeted with Julie's exuberant shout, rousing everyone from their slumber. The news had spread like wildfire, capturing the attention of the world. The first Gay Parade was about to take place, an event that would change the course of history, a gathering of voices demanding to be heard. Dragging Harry from his bed, Julie and the others propelled him into the heart of the excitement.

The streets were alive with anticipation, a sea of faces from all walks of life, a myriad of colours and backgrounds, united by a shared purpose. There were people of all ages, races, and genders, a tapestry of humanity that defied the stereotypes and prejudices that had held them captive for so long. New York had been transformed into a vibrant mosaic of signs, banners, and colourful clothing. Rainbow flags unfurled, their vibrant hues cutting through the city's grey landscape. Men, women, and those whose gender defied categorization walked together, hand in hand, their faces etched with determination.

Among the crowd, Harry felt a mixture of trepidation and exhilaration. He clung to Julie and his friends, a lifeline in the midst of a world he had never dared to fully embrace. As they walked, the energy surged, the collective heartbeat of a community that had endured oppression and silence for far too long.

His heart pounded in his chest, each step bringing him closer to a realisation. He looked around, seeing people who had come before him, who had fought for this moment, and he felt a profound gratitude. For a brief moment, he closed his eyes and imagined Louis beside him, imagining what it would be like to hold Louis' hand in this sea of acceptance. As he opened his eyes, he saw it. Two men, perched high on a road sign, their lips locked in a kiss that was bold, unapologetic, and utterly beautiful. The crowd erupted in applause, cheers ringing out like a symphony of hope and defiance. Harry's heart swelled as he watched, his breath catching in his throat.

For Louis, he had thought, raising his fist in solidarity, a gesture that was both personal and universal. In that moment, he felt a profound connection to everyone around him, a shared understanding that transcended language and cultural barriers. He screamed, not just for himself, but for all those who had ever been silenced, for the love that had been hidden away, and for the promise of a future where they could all be free.

That day had been a cacophony of voices, a kaleidoscope of colours, and a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. As the procession wound its way through the streets, Harry had walked with his head held high, his heart a mixture of gratitude, pride, and an unshakable resolve. The parade was a declaration, a proclamation that love was love, and it was here to stay.

Now, as the plane hurtled through the sky, carrying him back to the city that held his past and future, Harry's thoughts drifted back to the younger version of himself, the eighteen-year-old Harry who had embarked on a journey of self-discovery and love. He clutched the Oscar Wilde book, a tangible connection to a time when he had been more innocent, more uncertain, yet full of longing and hope.

Regret, like an unwelcome companion, tugged at his heartstrings. He replayed the moments when he could have acted differently, been bolder. He imagined the alternate paths he could have taken, the moments he could have seized. The corners of libraries and the fleeting glances that could have turned into embraces, the unspoken words that could have changed everything. Louis' handwriting in the book bore witness to the connection they had shared, the intimacy that had been as fragile as a whisper in the wind. He traced the notes and circled quotes with his fingers, each marking a testament to the memories they had created together, the stolen moments etched into the pages.

Sometimes, he would wonder if Louis was still thinking about him, the way he was thinking about Louis. Sometimes, he would laugh at himself for carrying this obsession for so long, Louis probably enjoying his life without a single thought for him.

The London skyline emerged from behind the clouds, a bittersweet welcome that stirred a mix of emotions within Harry. His grip on the book tightened, the memories flooding his mind like a torrent. The sleepless nights in London, the longing that had kept him awake, the wondering and the wandering of his thoughts.

But no matter the ache of what could have been, Harry's heart warmed as he thought about his sister and her impending motherhood. He smiled at the image of her, carrying life within her, and he felt a renewed sense of purpose. The prospect of seeing her again, of being a part of her journey, brought a glimmer of light to the shadow that had enveloped him.

As the plane descended, Harry knew he was returning to a life that he had accepted but not wholly embraced. He recognized the complexities of his situation, the need to uphold the family name, the expectations that hovered over him like a heavy cloud. He had grown, both physically and emotionally, the experiences in America having forged a more resilient version of himself.

At twenty-four, tall and broad, Harry was resolved to face the challenges that awaited him. He was prepared to play the role assigned to him, to wear the mask of the perfect son, to navigate the intricacies of societal norms. He understood that his truth had to remain hidden, that the world he had glimpsed in America couldn't be replicated here, not without jeopardising the delicate balance he had fought to achieve.

And so, as the wheels of the plane touched down on familiar ground, Harry steeled himself for what lay ahead. He carried within him the lessons learned, the connections forged, and the memories cherished. He was ready to confront his family, his responsibilities, and the spectre of a love that had marked him forever.

Chapter 2: Unwelcome Celebrations

Chapter Text

The sensation of being back in England was disconcerting, an odd blend of familiarity and unfamiliarity.

The city, with its traditional architecture and storied history, had an air of timelessness about it. The narrow streets lined with Victorian and Edwardian buildings, their facades adorned with ornate details that spoke of a bygone era. Chimneys sent thin plumes of smoke into the grey sky, a sign of the cosy fires burning within. The soft drizzle that had painted the city in a fine mist seemed to linger in the air, leaving a cool dampness that was quintessentially London. The streets were slick with rain, the cobblestones glistening under the glow of streetlights. Despite the weather, people bustled along the sidewalks, umbrellas unfurled like colourful blooms against the monochromatic backdrop.

As Harry sat in the cab, his gaze drifting out of the window, he couldn't help but notice how London seemed both familiar and yet subtly transformed. The same city that held both his history and his secrets stretched before him.

Adjusting his shirt and jacket with a practised gesture, he tried to tame down his now shorter hair, having not forced himself to go to the barber for ages and knowing all too well that his father preferred when he had a neat haircut.

The cab wove through the labyrinthine streets, passing landmarks that Harry had missed during his time abroad. The Tower of London stood proudly, its ancient stones bearing witness to centuries of history. The red double-decker buses rumbled past, their wheels splashing through puddles and leaving trails of water in their wake. Through the window, Harry caught a glimpse of the corner pub, its warm light spilling onto the wet pavement, inviting weary souls to seek refuge within its walls.

Men in suits walked briskly along the streets, their attire a symbol of London's enduring commitment to tradition. The city's pace was both frenetic and unhurried, a blend of modernity and a deep-rooted respect for its past. Shopfronts displayed vintage typewriters, antique books, and other relics of a time before technology reshaped the world.

As the cab approached familiar neighbourhoods, Harry's heart raced, a mixture of anxiety and anticipation settling in his chest. The vibrant street scenes shifted to the quieter residential areas, where rows of townhouses stood like sentinels. Each house seemed to hold its own stories, secrets whispered through the bricks and mortar.

And when the cab finally pulled up in front of his childhood home, Harry's nerves flared anew. The front door stood before him, an entryway to a world he had tried to escape, a world of expectations, duty, and secrets.

He took a deep breath, his gaze lingering on the house's façade, the familiar structure that held both his past and his future.

With a sense of trepidation, he paid the cab driver and stepped onto the pavement, retrieving his suitcases. The sound of rain tapping against his umbrella was a steady rhythm, a backdrop to the internal struggle he faced. The house loomed before him, its windows illuminated with warm light that contrasted the chilly darkness outside. He felt a lump form in his throat. This should have been a place of happiness, of cherished memories, but instead, it was tainted by the weight of his past.

His hands held his trunk firmly, his duffle bag slung over his shoulder. He took a moment to observe the scene before him—more cars than necessary were parked in front of the house, their presence puzzling to him. An inkling of confusion settled in his mind.

Approaching the front door, his hand reaching out to touch the handle, he was startled as it swung open before his fingers made contact. His sister Gemma stood in the doorway, her smile bright and her arms outstretched. With a rush of relief and emotion, he let his trunk fall to the ground with a thud and his duffle bag following suit, embracing Gemma tightly as if seeking refuge in her presence.

Laughter mixed with music filtered from within the house, and his moment of worry vanished as he held his sister. She circled him with a hand on his back and another at the back of his head, a gesture of comfort and familiarity. She pressed a soft kiss to the crown of his head, their bond unbroken despite the time and distance. Pulling back slightly, he looked down at her pregnant belly, a mixture of awe and tenderness in his expression. His dimples appeared as he smiled at her, a lingering echo of his younger self. He met her eyes and she nodded, the unspeakable bond between them strengthening in that moment. Gently, he placed his hands on her dress-covered belly, feeling the life within.

"Mom thinks it's a girl," Gemma said, her voice gentle, her hands covering his. "She says my belly's pointing and my skin's better than before."

Harry's smile widened as he marvelled at the miracle of life before him. "I'm so happy for you," he murmured in awe, his palms moving in gentle circles as if trying to connect with the tiny life within her. Then, he looked back up at her, a question in his eyes. "Are you happy?"

Gemma's smile faltered for a moment, her expression shifting to one of concern. “I hope she will be a fool.’’ She said, ‘’That is the best thing in this world a girl can be.”

She opened her mouth as if about to say something more, but her attention was drawn away by another burst of laughter from within the house. Harry's smile faded in tandem with hers, his brows knitting in confusion. It was as if he was stepping into a puzzle with missing pieces.

As he reached out to open the door, his sister stepped in front of him, her form a protective shield. With a reassuring look, she silently communicated that whatever was about to happen, she was there for him. It was a small gesture, but it bolstered his spirits as he stepped inside.

The house was alive with activity, a celebration in full swing. Gemma led the way, her pregnancy-adorned figure gliding gracefully as she led him toward the heart of the gathering. The chatter of familiar voices mingled with the hum of music, creating an atmosphere that was both welcoming and bewildering.

Before he could fully process the scene before him, he found himself enveloped in the warm embrace of his mother. Her arms wound around him, her red lipstick leaving an affectionate stain on his jaw as she pinched his cheeks in a gesture of motherly affection. Her eyes held a mixture of sadness and pride, her smile a veneer that masked the complexities beneath.

"Come on, everyone's been waiting for you," she said, her voice tinged with an air of formality that belied the undercurrent of emotion. She helped him out of his long coat, raking her painted nails in his hair and arranging them to her liking, Gemma putting away his duffle bag and pushing the trunk away. She guided him into the living with her hand in his, Gemma behind them with a hand on her belly.

Stepping into the room, Harry's breath caught in his throat, and he was momentarily immobilised by the scene before him.

The room was set for a formal dinner, the long wooden table adorned with elegance—white roses stood in a graceful bouquet at its centre, plates and silverware arranged meticulously, and wine glasses glistening in the soft light. His heart raced, anxiety and uncertainty sweeping over him as he took in the sight.

Family members were scattered around the room—uncles, aunts, and cousins—each adding to the tableau of his father's design. His father, a bulkier and older version of the man he remembered, stood at the heart of the gathering. In his hand was a glass of whiskey, his deep laughter mingling with the warm tones of conversation. Beside him stood a man whose features stirred a faint memory—greyish hair and dark blue eyes. The two men shared hearty laughter, their camaraderie resonating throughout the room.

In that moment, he knew—the pieces of his father's puzzle fell into place, revealing the truth he had been dreading.

A young girl, a vision of delicate beauty, stood next to the fireplace. Her long, blond hair cascaded over her shoulders with wavy locks, and bright blue eyes met Harry's as if capturing his attention and holding it. Her slender figure was adorned in a dark blue dress that accentuated her gracefulness. A torrent of emotions surged within him, a tempest of anger and disappointment that threatened to consume his composure. His blood boiled with a mixture of frustration and resignation, his fist involuntary clenching at his side as he battled to contain his emotions.

His mother's lack of intervention spoke volumes. He turned his gaze toward her, silently pleading for an escape route, for an explanation, for some sign that she would shield him from this orchestrated situation. But her eyes did not meet his; instead, she pushed him forward with a gentle yet insistent hand at the small of his back, her touch propelling him into the midst of the gathering.

The room seemed to close in around him, the weight of expectation pressing down with an intensity that was palpable. Harry's clenched jaw and controlled expression masked the turmoil within him, his thoughts a cacophony of resistance and rebellion. The facade he had carefully cultivated during his years abroad was cracking under the weight of his father's ambitions, and his anger burned like a fire beneath the surface.

The intensity of his father's gaze weighed heavily upon him, and Harry realised that he was being observed, evaluated. His mother nudged him again with an apologetic smile, guiding him closer to the centre of attention. He walked reluctantly, feeling the pressure of everyone's eyes upon him like a spotlight.

"My boy," his father's voice boomed, demanding the room's attention. "It is good to have you back." His outstretched hand beckoned Harry to join him, and Harry approached, a mix of apprehension and formality in his steps. His father's massive hand came to rest on his shoulder, the pressure a reminder that he was under scrutiny and that any misstep would have consequences.

Desmond's voice reverberated, introducing his son with a flourish. "My son is back from Harvard."

The glass in his hand twirled Harry, a visual display of him for the guests to examine. It was as though he was an exhibit, a testament to his father's success and power. He clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to break the façade he was expected to uphold.

"Anne, come on, a glass," Desmond commanded with a snap of his fingers, and Harry's frustration surged. The pretence of behaving according to his father's whims was growing more difficult to maintain by the second.

Accepting the wine glass from his mother, he exchanged a brief glance with her, hoping to convey his distress. Her sad smile revealed her empathy, but she returned to her seat beside Gemma, unable to intervene against the forces at play.

“Harry, I want you to meet my long time friend, René.”

Harry stood his ground, extending his hand with a firm shake, determined to project a facade of confidence. "Very nice to meet you, sir," he offered, his words polite yet guarded.

René's response was laced with familiarity. "Dear lord, last time I saw you, you were still in your nappies." His words carried an air of condescension, assessing Harry in a way that made his discomfort apparent. He shifted his gaze to Desmond. "Good job you did there, eh?" The laughter that followed sounded forced, an undercurrent of ulterior motives lingering beneath the surface.

His father's hand remained on his shoulder, a reminder of the expectations he must meet. With a gentle gesture, Desmond turned Harry to face the blonde girl that now had joined them shyly. "This is René's daughter, Camille."

"It is a pleasure," Harry said with practised charm, his gentlemanly demeanour a testament to his upbringing. He caught her gaze for a moment, the sight of her blushing cheeks making him pull his hand away.

"Camille and René are just back from Paris," his father informed, and Harry feigned interest, nodding and taking a sip of wine. He played his role well, the mask of congeniality concealing his internal turmoil.

"My wife is actually French, but she stayed a bit longer," René added, his casual remark hinting at a complexity that was beyond the surface. The conversation flowed on around him, but Harry's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, each piece of information contributing to the puzzle of the gathering he found himself trapped within.

And so, he played his part—maintaining a façade of civility, engaging in conversations, and hiding his inner turmoil behind a practised smile. He let his father tug him by the elbow, and all but shoving him in front of his uncles and aunts, narrating how Harry had graduated from Oxford with his teachers' praises. He listened to his father talk about how proud he was for his son, how sending him to Harvard was a best decision for his future, venting about the cost of it all.

Dinner followed soon after that. The long, elegant wooden table was set impeccably, a striking contrast against the backdrop of the room's opulent décor. Crystal wine glasses glistened, and polished silverware gleamed beneath the soft glow of chandeliers. Candles adorned the table, casting warm flickering light across the faces of the assembled guests. Harry found himself seated next to Camille, a position that felt like a calculated move by their fathers who sat at the two ends of the long table. Directly opposite Harry was Gemma and her husband, their affectionate demeanour casting a stark contrast to a few years back.

Amidst the clinking of silverware and the soft murmur of conversation, Harry's throat felt parched as he tried to navigate the situation. He kept his eyes averted, avoiding meeting Camille's gaze, his unease palpable. A toast was raised to his return, his father's words ringing out in the ornate room. But then, his father added an unexpected twist to the toast, sending a shockwave through Harry.

"And to Harry and Camille's new … friendship."

His heart sank as realisation dawned.

The celebration was not just a welcome for his return; it was a stage on which his future was being unveiled, a plot that had been set into motion during his absence. The weight of expectation pressed down on him, the stifling reality of his role as the family's heirloom bearing down with suffocating force.

As the conversation flowed around the table, Harry observed his father expertly manoeuvring the social dynamics, showcasing his charisma and power. The room seemed to revolve around Desmond, his magnetic presence drawing attention and silencing dissent. Amidst this orchestrated spectacle, Harry felt Camille turn towards him, her focus unsettling.

"So," her voice was a delicate breeze, "Oxford, right? It must have been very exciting."

Harry's hand froze in mid-air, the glass of wine suspended before his lips as her words pulled him from his thoughts. He quickly regained his composure, aware of their fathers' watchful eyes upon them. "Um, yes. It was... fulfilling," he responded, his tone carefully measured.

"I always wondered if it was as beautiful as people say," Camille mused, her voice like a soft melody punctuating the room's refined atmosphere.

He took a sip of his wine, using the moment to collect his thoughts. "Well, it is quite an amazing place. The libraries are stunning. The gardens as well."

Her gentle chuckle brushed against his ears, and he could hear the slight scrape of her chair as she leaned closer. "So are you going to be a policeman now?"

His head turned toward her, brows furrowed in confusion. "No, I studied to be a lawyer, like my father," he clarified, his words carrying an undercurrent of tension and his voice firm. He corrected himself quickly, feeling the anxious gaze of his mother on him. ‘’What-’’ he cleared his throat. ‘’What about you then?’’

‘’Oh, I wanted to be a nurse.’’ She put down her glass and adjusted her dress on her lap, looking back at him with doe eyes. ‘’But dad said that once I was married, I wouldn’t need to be working.’’ She said with a giggle, hiding her smile behind her wrist,

The memory of Louis, with his signature gesture and all the unique characteristics that made him who he was, surged within Harry's mind. The sound of her voice, the flash of blue eyes, the airy laugh—all of it paled in comparison to the image of the person who still haunted his mind. Camille was an unfortunate substitute, a pawn in a game Harry wanted no part of. He felt a lump rise in his throat, suffocating him, and his hands trembled.

Desperation clawed at him as he sought an escape, his chest tightening with every passing second. The proximity of Camille and the weight of their fathers' gaze pressed down on him, forcing him to the brink of his composure. With a gasp that he tried to muffle with a cough, Harry pushed his chair back abruptly, his fingers trembling as he rose from his seat.

His swift exit from the dining room was a desperate bid for relief, the urge to escape overwhelming his sense of decorum. He stumbled toward the door, the breath in his lungs escaping him like a rush of wind. He hastily undid the top button of his shirt, the constriction of it suddenly suffocating. Once outside, he gripped the front of his shirt, trying to inhale deep breaths and steady himself.

The sound of footsteps approached, and he hoped it was Gemma, his lifeline in moments like these. When he felt a hand on his back, his muscles tensed, but the soothing tone of his mother's voice made him turn to face her. His frustration surged, and he unleashed his pent-up anger in her direction.

"You knew," he hissed, the words sharp and accusatory, each one a weapon he used to lash out against her. "It was all planned. You couldn't even wait a day. I just got out of the bloody plane, for God's sake!"

Her expression shifted between surprise and sorrow as she struggled to find the right words. Harry's anger erupted, fuelled by the feeling of betrayal and confinement that had been brewing since his return. He gestured towards the streets in exasperation, his voice carrying a mix of bitterness and frustration.

‘’Darling, we,’’ She sighed, ‘’I am sorry, but your father and I we-’’

‘’And so what?’’ He said, voice loud and uncaring. ‘’What’s next then, mother?’’ He spat, almost mockingly, ‘’Am I to marry her tomorrow? Is that it? Did you already choose a house for us? Did you also tell people at church and sent the invitations ?’’

He saw how her face fell, how she parted her lips and with shame, dropped her gaze to the floor. Harry took two steps back, shaking his head. ‘’You did..’’

In his turmoil, he barely registered Gemma's presence. She came out the front door with a dark stare toward her mother, approaching the two of them and going directly for Harry. With a gentle hand on his shoulder, she turned him away from their mother and brought him against her chest, letting him fit his face at the crook of her neck. And with a silent but firm nod of her chin, she sent her mother away.

As soon as he heard the front door closing behind them, he clung to her, finding comfort in her embrace, feeling like a lost child seeking solace. He let his sob out, just like he did at five the first time he fell off his bike. Like he did at eight the first time his father hit him. Like he did at sixteen when she saw him playing with her lipstick.

He pulled away slightly, red nose and strained face, already shaking his head. ‘’I c-can't... I don’t-’’

She stopped him with a tender touch of her hand against his cheek, using her thumb to erase the trace of his tears on his face. ‘’It is for protection.’’ She whispered, her green eyes fixated on his. ‘’No one will suspect anything if you marry a woman.’’

He froze, his eyes darting to her, searching and trying to understand her implication. He spiralled, trying to pinpoint how she could know, how she could be so okay with it. He tried to take a step back, but she maintained him close to her, swiping away the newly fallen tears.

He tried to speak, his chin wobbling with unfallen tears, trying to contain his sobs.

She brought him in a hug, firm and constricting, as he tried to avoid her belly with a hand on it. ''I know,'' she whispered. ''I know..''

He trembled under her touch, his sobs overtaking him as the weight of his emotions spilled forth. The realisation that she was not just an ally but shared his secret and accepted him as he was, brought a mix of relief and vulnerability. The acceptance he found in her embrace, in her whispered words, was a lifeline that kept him from sinking completely into despair.

Back inside the house after his feigned cigarette break, Harry couldn't ignore the dark glare of his father from the end of the table. Desmond's eyes followed him as he re-entered the room, the intensity of that gaze sending an unsettling shiver down Harry's spine. It was a warning, a silent promise of what awaited him once the guests had departed. Harry's jaw tightened, and he met his father's gaze with a defiant look of his own, refusing to be intimidated.

Now, Harry stood by the fireplace, Brandy glass in hand, the amber liquid untouched and unwanted. The room was abuzz with conversations, laughter, and the clinking of glasses, yet it all felt distant and muffled to him. His father, René, one of his uncles, and he were engaged in a conversation about his impending journey into the legal field.

"Desmond, how do you manage with the recent changes in the legal landscape?" René began, his French accent adding a certain charm to his words. "I, myself, think it has been quite remarkable, especially in matters of civil rights and social reform."

Desmond chuckled, taking a sip of his Brandy. "Ah, yes, I've heard about those new laws coming into effect. Can't say I'm too thrilled about some of them."

René arched an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eye. "Oh, come now, my friend. Change is inevitable, and often for the better. Embrace the winds of progress."

Harry, though lost in his own thoughts, managed to catch snippets of their conversation. His father's resistance to change was nothing new, but it was clear that the times were shifting, and even the law was evolving to reflect the demands of a changing society.

Desmond's gaze shifted to Harry, a mischievous grin forming on his lips. But his uncle, bless him, spoke before he could. "Speaking of change, Harry, I hear you're embarking on a new journey as well."

Harry blinked, his attention snapped back to the conversation at hand. He cleared his throat, his voice steadying as he replied, "Yes, I've secured a position at the law firm with my father. Starting next week."

Desmond's grin widened, and he nudged René with his elbow. "Our boy's all grown up, stepping into the world of litigation."

René chuckled, raising his glass in a mock toast. "A toast to Harry's budding legal career. May he be as fierce in the courtroom as his father on the golf field."

The men laughed, their camaraderie evident as they continued to chat about the ins and outs of the legal profession. As their conversation shifted, Harry's thoughts wandered once again to the path he was being pushed down. His gaze was fixed on an indistinct point on the floor, his eyes unfocused as if trying to see through the very fabric of his reality. He blinked lazily, his thoughts wandering to places far removed from the grandeur of the room. The weight of his family's expectations pressed down on him, suffocating him. The more they spoke, the more distant his own aspirations seemed. The lawyer's path felt like a prison, a predetermined track that offered him no real freedom.

Meanwhile, on the sofas, the young women were engrossed in their own conversations. Tea and wine were sipped, and laughter filled the air. Camille was among them, her presence near Gemma a constant reminder of the impending entanglement. He watched as she gestured animatedly, her pink nails catching the light as her delicate hand moved. A wave of nausea washed over him as moments later, those same nails were resting on his sister's pregnant belly, Camille’s smile growing even more.

The idea of forming a bond with Camille, of forging any kind of connection, felt like an unbearable weight on his shoulders.

Finally, the guests began to leave, and the weight of the evening started to lift. In the hallway, as hosts, Harry's mother and father stood alongside him, bidding farewell to each guest. Gemma's embrace lingered a moment longer than usual, an unspoken plea in her eyes as she looked from him to their father. She seemed to understand the storm that awaited him as soon as the door closed.

His father's gestures were all calculated and practised, each pat and smile masking an underlying message. As his hand landed on Gemma's pregnant belly, Harry clenched his jaw, struggling to suppress the rising resentment within him. He held his sister's gaze for a moment, a silent exchange of understanding, before she was led away with her husband, followed by their uncle and aunt.

With each departing guest, the pressure in the room seemed to ease, but a growing sense of dread settled in Harry's chest as he realised he was alone with his father. René and his daughter were the last to leave, and Desmond all but shoved Harry toward Camille, a clear directive in his actions. Resisting the urge to protest, Harry helped Camille with her coat, their eyes briefly meeting before he averted his gaze and simply led her out.

As the door closed behind them, Harry locked it quickly, his ears ringing with the sound of the door latch, which felt like a barrier between him and the outside world. He swallowed hard, steeling himself for the confrontation he knew was coming. When he turned away from the door, the atmosphere in the hallway was charged with tension. He flinched at the sound of his father's hand connecting with his cheek before he even felt the sting.

The slap sent shockwaves through him, his head snapping to the side from the force of it. He stood there, frozen, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. He refused to let his father see the pain that flashed through his eyes or the mix of anger and hurt that churned in his chest. He blinked rapidly, trying to wield the tears that threatened to betray him back into submission.

Amid the tense silence, his mother gasped, her voice shaking as she tried to intervene. But his father silenced her with a sharp look, and Harry's gaze remained locked on the coat rack in front of him, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. The room seemed to shrink, the hallway becoming a confined space filled with the weight of years of unspoken frustration.

Then, his father's voice pierced the silence, commanding his attention. "Look at me," he ordered, his words laced with a combination of disdain and authority. The scent of Brandy and old cigar smoke wafted over Harry, mixing with the tension in the air. Slowly, he turned his head, his eyes locking onto his father's, their gazes colliding with an intensity that reflected years of unresolved conflict.

Desmond's finger pointed accusingly at Harry's face, a snarl distorting his features. "What was that?" His voice dripped with disappointment and anger, each word a weight that bore down on Harry's shoulders. Yet, he stood tall, his resolve unwavering.

Harry knew better than to answer, aware that any response would only fuel the fire. He held his ground, his jaw clenched tightly as he met his father's gaze with unwavering defiance. He refused to show weakness, not now, not ever.

‘’Desmond-’’

As his mother's voice attempted to intercede once more, his father silenced her with a raised hand. "Did I not raise you right, Harry?" The question hung in the air, heavy and accusatory, a challenge that demanded a response. Harry felt his fists trembling at his sides, a surge of anger coursing through him.

The tension was palpable, the hallway suffocating with unspoken words and unresolved emotions. Harry's heart pounded in his chest, his breaths shallow and rapid. He knew that he was on the precipice of a clash that had been building for years, and in that moment, he had a choice to make: to submit to his father's expectations or to stand his ground, consequences be damned.

As his father turned away with a disapproving sigh, probably taking Harry’s silence for acceptance and submission, Harry pulled himself away from the door and straightened his back. He took a deep breath, his voice tight but steady. "I didn't expect to walk into a marriage proposal. I need time to figure things out." His words were measured, each one carrying the weight of his pent-up feelings. He was trying to hide his fear, using his now taller and broader form and his deep voice to convince his father to finally listen to him.

Desmond stopped mid-air in his steps, turning ever so slowly around with disgust on his face. ‘’I beg your pardon ?’’ He asked, turning fully around and pinning Harry with his stare, daring him to speak again.

But Harry was not ten anymore, nor was he eighteen. He took a step further, his voice grew sharper, fuelled by frustration. "You orchestrated all of this without even asking me for what I want." The bitterness in his tone was palpable, his resentment simmering beneath the surface.

Desmond's expression hardened, his jaw clenching as he leaned in closer. "What you want? Time ?”

He repeated the words, spatting them like it was burning his tongue, “Don't be naive, Harry. This is the real world. Marriages in our circles are often strategic, and you will do well to understand that." His father took another step toward him, bringing them chest to chest. ‘’You're not a child, Harry. I don't need to coddle you. It's time you start thinking about the family's future and your responsibilities." His father's words cut like knives, and Harry's nails pierced the skin of his palm.

The anger in Harry's chest surged to the forefront, his control slipping as he shot back, "What about my happiness?" His voice wavered with a mix of desperation and determination. “I just got off the plane for f*ck sake!”

His father's laughter was cold, devoid of empathy. "Happiness is a luxury, Harry. It's not always attainable, and it's certainly not the most important thing in life. Our family's name, our status, and our finances are at stake here."

Harry's fists clenched at his sides, his voice shaking with a blend of fury and heartache. "So, is my happiness worth sacrificing for money and pride? Is that what you're saying?"

Desmond's gaze bore into Harry's with a cold intensity. "You have a responsibility to this family. Marrying Camille will secure our future, ensure our legacy. You should be grateful for the opportunity."

"Grateful?" Harry's voice cracked, his anger finally breaking through the surface. "I won't let you dictate my life like this. I won't be forced into a loveless marriage for the sake of some outdated notion of family honour."

Desmond's eyes blazed with indignation, his voice rising in volume. "You're being selfish, Harry. You're not thinking about the bigger picture. You're not thinking about the sacrifices I've made to ensure our family's success!"

The two locked gazes, an unspoken battle of wills raging between them. Harry's fists shook with the effort to contain his anger, his voice seething with resentment. "I won't let you make me miserable just to satisfy your ego and ambitions."

Desmond's face flushed with anger, his tone dripping with condescension. "You have no idea what it takes to uphold this family's name. You'll understand when you're older, when you've grown up."

Harry's voice was heavy with defiance, each word weighted with a lifetime of suppressed frustration. "I won't let you define my life for me. I won't let you force me into a life I don't want."

The room felt electric with tension, the clash of wills between father and son echoing through the walls. Harry's chest heaved with emotion, his gaze unyielding as he faced off against his father. Desmond went to raise his fist this time, Harry shutting his eyes close and waiting for the blow. But when nothing came, he opened them ever so slowly to find his mother in between them, facing her husband.

‘’Enough.’’ She said, her voice wavering. ‘’Harry, come help me in the kitchen.’’

And with that, she left them.

Harry followed his mother's retreating figure, his father's angry stare burning into his back. In the kitchen, the air felt calmer, the scent of leftover dinner lingering in the air. His mother was already gathering dishes, her movements deliberate but her expression weary. She didn't meet his eyes as she spoke.

"Start by rinsing the plates," she instructed, her voice tinged with a mix of exhaustion and sadness. Harry obeyed, turning on the tap and watching as water cascaded over the porcelain. The sound of running water provided a momentary respite from the tension in the other room.

As he worked alongside his mother, the clinking of dishes creating a rhythm, Harry ventured to speak. "Why did you stop him?" His voice was hesitant, laced with confusion.

His mother sighed, her hands pausing for a moment before she continued. "Your father... he can be difficult at times. I didn't want things to escalate further." She turned her gaze to him, her blue eyes meeting his, and he saw a mixture of concern and understanding in them.

Harry's voice was heavy with his pent-up emotions. "Why did he have to do this? Why did he have to arrange everything without even asking me?"

She wiped her hands on a dishcloth before stepping closer to him, her expression softening. "Harry, you have to understand that your father has certain expectations for our family. He believes that this marriage is in our best interest, financially and socially."

Harry's frustration simmered beneath the surface, his jaw clenched. "But what about what I want?"

His mother's gaze held a distant sadness, a hint of her own struggles hidden within. "I know it's not easy to accept, but sometimes in life, we have to make sacrifices for the greater good. I, too, was in a similar situation when I married your father."

He looked at her in surprise, the revelation catching him off guard. "You were?"

She nodded, her lips forming a melancholic smile. "Yes, darling. When I married your father, it wasn't a grand love story, but it brought us you and Gemma—the best things in the world.”

He turned away from the dishes, his heart heavy with the weight of their conversation. "So, you're telling me that I have to give up on my dreams and my happiness for the sake of tradition and family reputation?"

His mother's touch was gentle as she turned him to face her, her eyes earnest. "I'm not saying that you have to give up on your dreams, Harry. Marriage doesn't define who you are or what you can achieve. It's a path you walk alongside other paths. It's a way to safeguard our family, to preserve what we've built."

He looked into her eyes, seeking answers, seeking reassurance. "But what if I want more? What if I don't want to be.. Like him?"

She sighed, her expression a mix of empathy and resignation. "I understand how you feel, Harry. But sometimes, we have to find our own way within the constraints of the world we live in. You're stronger than you think. You’ll understand.’’

And that night, when he finally dragged his trunk and duffle bag back in his bedroom, closing the door behind him and marvelling into the first bit of intimacy he had for the entire day, he swallowed down the tears. Ripping his clothes away, he padded naked into his bathroom, turning on the small orange bulb on the ceiling.

The hot water cascaded over him, mingling with the tears that streaked down his cheeks. Harry stood beneath the showerhead, his forehead pressed against the cool tiles, lost in his own thoughts and emotions. The water seemed to wash away the physical exhaustion from his journey, but it couldn't cleanse the turmoil that churned within him. As steam filled the bathroom and his breathing steadied, he allowed himself a moment of vulnerability, a space to let his feelings flow freely. The events of the evening, the confrontation with his father, and the weight of the decisions being imposed on him weighed heavily on his heart.

He closed his eyes, letting the water soothe his aching muscles, but it couldn't soothe the ache in his chest. The tears mixed with the drops of water, becoming indistinguishable from one another. The shower became a sanctuary, a private place where he could let go of the facade he was forced to wear in front of others.

Turning off the shower, he stepped out and wrapped a towel around his waist. He caught his reflection in the foggy bathroom mirror, his eyes red and tired, a stark contrast to the confident facade he had to wear earlier. He wiped away the condensation and stared at himself, searching for the strength he knew he needed to face the path that lay ahead.

As he changed into a clean pair of pyjamas and climbed into his childhood bed, he pulled the covers up around him. The room felt both familiar and foreign, a place where he had grown up but now carried the weight of his uncertain future.

He closed his eyes, allowing the exhaustion to finally catch up with him. The sound of rain tapping against the window provided a soothing backdrop to his thoughts. And as sleep began to claim him, he clung to the fragments of his memories, to the promise of a future that he hoped he could shape on his own terms.

September brought both the best and worst moments for him.

Gemma went into labour on a warm August night, bringing forth a little girl named Sophia. Witnessing the joy on his sister's face and holding the newborn in his arms brought immense happiness to Harry.

However, that same day, upon returning home, Harry's father informed him of a dinner with Camille that evening, with the restaurant already booked. There was a subtle suggestion that his father hoped Harry would extend his time with her.

At dinner, Harry felt awkward and embarrassed in Camille's company. While she possessed beauty, intelligence, and fluency in both French and perfect English, these qualities only served to remind him of Louis, who also possessed similar attributes. For the first time in a while, thoughts of Louis resurfaced, and Harry couldn't help but reflect on how Louis could do all those things, too. Camille expressed aspirations of becoming a nurse or a librarian, prompting Harry to steer the conversation toward books, just as Louis had done with him when he was eighteen. He shared insights about Oscar Wilde and imparted knowledge about various writers.

As dinner concluded, Harry drove Camille back to her house, a sense of fear and unease enveloping him. He noticed the shadow of her father outside the window, watching and assessing. Aware of the expectations placed upon him and the potential dire consequences of avoidance, Harry leaned forward and kissed Camille goodnight.

Despite never harbouring a desire to be part of his father's plan to mould him into the new Desmond Styles, Harry had dedicated his entire life to reaching this pivotal moment. Countless sleepless nights, tears shed, and dedication poured into legal documents, books, notes, and endless hours of learning and memorization had brought him to this point. And now, he was ready.

Stepping into his office for the first time filled him with immense pride and confidence. The sight of his name engraved on a gold plaque adorning the door marked a realisation – he was no longer a boy; he had become a man. With grace and proficiency, he navigated through his new job and embraced his new life.

As he and Camille spent more time together, her genuine affection and caring nature became apparent. She consistently demonstrated her love and support for Harry, unaware of his internal struggles. She would bring him lunch at work, drawing envy from his colleagues with her beauty and undivided attention. Sometimes, they would meet in Hyde Park, where she waited for him on a bench, and together, they would read and enjoy coffee in comfortable silence.

Despite Harry's reservations and his realisation that he could never reciprocate her feelings, he found a certain comfort in the apparent ease of their relationship.

And after a month of officially seeing each other, their commitment became official—they were getting married.

The wedding day, a dreary Sunday, unfolded as the most dismal day in Harry's life. Morning rain cascaded down the window, and grey clouds peered through partially drawn curtains, casting a sombre atmosphere over the room. In just his underwear, Harry sat on the bed, fixated on the immaculate suit hanging on the closet door. His own reflection in the mirror seemed to implore him, silently urging him to flee.

The tailored suit, laden with the weight of societal expectations and family traditions, symbolised a future he grappled with. Rising slowly from the bed, he traced his fingers over the fabric, triggering a torrent of memories and emotions.

The room, adorned with mementos of achievements and framed photographs, felt both familiar and alien. Echoes of clandestine encounters in Oxford, especially with Louis, resonated through the air, evoking a longing for a time when passion defied conformity. While Harvard had briefly provided respite, offering a reprieve from emotional complexities, returning to London and navigating a facade with Camille compelled him to bury desires, conforming to societal norms.

Now, the suit hung in silent judgement, embodying the life he was about to embrace. A sudden wave of sadness and nostalgia engulfed him. Mechanically, he walked to his desk, mind guiding his actions, and like a robot, he rummaged through drawers, searching beneath stacks of papers for a cherished leather journal. Opening it, he traced his fingers over the writings, each penned during nights overwhelmed by emotion. Lost in contemplation, he read every word he had inscribed during his time at Oxford.

Louis' name appeared too many times, but Harry persisted in reading. Memories accompanied the words — echoes of laughter, images of a carefree self, running in corridors, intoxicated and joyful. Staring at the notebook, he gripped its edges so fiercely that he tore a page, awakening something within him. Ceasing to breathe, his blood surged.

In a frenzied rage, he tore out every page, as if bidding farewell to his past. The entire notebook, even the blank pages, succumbed to his fury. Small grunts and pained moans escaped him as he tossed everything into the bin next to his desk. Standing there, ragged breaths and dishevelled hair, he observed his memories being erased, eyes shifting to the suit, jaw clenching.

He could do it.

He would marry her, love her, and find happiness.

With that resolve, he stormed into his bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

As he donned the suit, each button fastened with meticulous care, he felt a tug at his heart. The weight of the ring in his pocket, a symbol of commitment to Camille, felt heavier than ever. The internal struggle intensified, emotions wrestling within him like a tempest. He took a deep breath, attempting to compose himself, giving himself this little hour to renounce the last bit of freedom still belonging to him.

The suit was a sartorial masterpiece that encapsulated a fashion essence. The three-piece ensemble exuded timeless elegance, crafted from a rich, deep navy fabric that boasted a subtle sheen. The jacket featured wide lapels, reminiscent of the era's penchant for bold statements, and a tailored fit that accentuated Harry's lean physique.

The vest, snugly fitted, showcased a tasteful pattern that added a touch of flair without overpowering the ensemble. A crisp, white dress shirt with a classic spread collar peeked out from beneath the vest, its cuffs adorned with meticulously chosen cufflinks. The trousers, with a slight flare at the hem, embodied the prevailing style of the time. Tailored to perfection, they hugged his hips before cascading into a gentle drape. A slender, matching belt cinched at the waist, completing the ensemble with a polished touch.

For his haircut, his signature curly locks were neatly styled back with a natural wave, cascaded down to touch his collar. A single loose strand gracefully fell on his forehead, caressing his brow.

As he adjusted his tie, the reflection staring back at him masked a façade of composure, concealing a complex tapestry of emotions swirling beneath the surface. He kept fidgeting with the cufflinks, a constant crease on his forehead.

A soft tap on the bedroom door momentarily hesitated before entering.

“Harry?”

Turning, he offered a faint smile, acknowledging his perceptive sister, Gemma.

“You look dashing, as always,” she remarked, stepping forward to stand in front of him, her hands instinctively moving to help him with his hair.

“Easy for you to say. You're not the one about to walk down the aisle.”

“Harry, we've always been honest with each other,” Gemma sighed, raising her brown eyes to meet his. “Are.. Are you sure you can do it?”

“Of course, I am not.”

She licked her lips, her hands pausing on his hair before settling on his shoulders. “Maybe you shouldn’t have come back.”

“What?”

“I thought you would stay here. I hoped, actually, that you would never come back.”

In the silence that followed, Harry's vulnerability emerged, visible in his gaze as it met Gemma's.

“You deserve to be happy, Harry. I hate seeing you like this.”

He couldn’t help but look away, his eyes dropping to the floor as he gulped. “It’s what he wants.”

The sound of her heels echoed again, and her hand landed on his forearm, pleading with him to look. “And what do you want?”

He paused to contemplate, a chuckle escaping him when the first thought that crossed his mind was Louis. Dating Camille and immersing himself in work had allowed him to bury thoughts of Louis deep within, but in his childhood bedroom, with Gemma holding him, memories of laughter and freedom flooded back.

The chuckle transformed into a wet laugh, Harry shaking his head.

“I’ll be there no matter what, H. Always,” she whispered, kissing his forehead.

The hallowed silence of St. James Cathedral wrapped around Harry like a heavy cloak as he stood at the altar, facing Camille. The scent of aged wood and the dim glow of the candles seemed to accentuate the gravity of the moment. All eyes were on him, relatives and well-wishers, their gazes like unspoken expectations.

The priest, a figure of authority draped in ceremonial vestments, began to recite the vows that bound Harry and Camille together. Camille's eyes glistened with anticipation and affection, but as Harry gazed into them, he found himself drowning in a sea of doubt.

"I, Harry,” He swallowed around the lump in his throat when he realised his voice was shaking. He hoped that Camille couldn't feel the slight tremble of his fingers and how his skin was clammy. He focused his eyes on the ring, not able to look at her. “Take you, Camille, to be my lawfully wedded wife," he intoned, the words feeling foreign on his tongue, each syllable a weight on his conscience.

Camille, radiant in her ivory gown, beamed with joy as she repeated the vows. Harry's fingers twitched, his gaze drifting to the ornate stained-glass windows, trying to find solace in the kaleidoscope of colours.

"To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part," they recited in unison, the solemn promise echoing through the sacred space.

Harry struggled to focus on Camille, the embodiment of the life he was reluctantly stepping into. He searched for reasons to like her, to find something beyond the forced union. Her kindness, her genuine excitement for their life together – these were the lifelines he clung to amidst the tempest of conflicting emotions.

Yet, as the priest spoke of unity and the sanctity of marriage, Harry's mind betrayed him. Images of Oxford and moonlit trysts with Louis flashed before his eyes. He could almost feel the warmth of Louis' touch, the weight of the unspoken connection they had shared. The church became a cavern of memories, the echoes of clandestine love reverberating with each uttered vow.

His own promise felt like a betrayal of his true self, a surrender to the societal norms that demanded conformity. The presence of Camille at his side felt like a phantom, an illusion that mocked the authenticity he had buried deep within.

The congregation observed the ceremony with rapt attention, their collective gaze an unrelenting force. Every murmur, every gasp seemed to reach Harry's ears, amplifying the dissonance within.

As the vows concluded, and the priest proclaimed them husband and wife, Harry forced a smile that masked the turbulence beneath. The church erupted in applause, but Harry's heart beat to the discordant rhythm of his internal struggle.

The ornate doors of the Cathedral swung open, ushering Harry and Camille into the soft glow of afternoon sunlight. The grand staircase awaited them, adorned with a cascade of flowers and framed by jubilant well-wishers. Camille, radiant in her bridal glory, held tightly onto Harry's arm, her fingers intertwined with his. In her free hand, she clutched a bouquet of delicate blooms, a symbol of the day's celebration.

As they descended the stairs, the crowd erupted into cheers, the joyous cacophony echoing through the air. Camille, with an infectious smile, raised her bouquet high, the vibrant colours dancing against the backdrop of her ivory gown. Petals rained down upon them, a fragrant shower of well-intentioned wishes and marital bliss.

Harry, his eyes fixed on the ground, struggled to maintain composure. Camille's grip on his arm felt both comforting and constricting, the embodiment of a life that wasn't entirely his own. Gemma, his sister, and his mother stood at the bottom of the stairs, their eyes brimming with tears. The emotional gaze of his family pierced through Harry, and he felt a lump forming in his throat. He averted his eyes, unable to meet their gaze, the conflict within him threatening to spill over.

As the couple reached the final step, Harry's eyes met Gemma's for a fleeting moment. The unspoken understanding between siblings hung in the air – a silent acknowledgment of the sacrifices made for the sake of tradition and family honour.

The sound of the church bells echoed in Harry's mind, marking the transition to a new chapter of his life. He turned his eyes towards the sky, seeking solace in the vast expanse above.

"Harry! Harry, over here!" called James, a young teenager with an old camera.

Interrupted, Harry turned just in time for Camille to pivot towards him, her smile unwavering. She threw her arms around his shoulders, the bouquet swaying at his back. The crowd erupted into shouts, some whispering about how good they looked together. Over Camille's shoulder, Harry glimpsed his father, hands casually tucked in his pockets. A subtle raise of his father's eyebrow prompted Harry to encircle his arms behind Camille.

She leaned in, the cheers and applause intensifying, more petals descending upon them as he met her halfway, sealing the moment with a kiss. Pressing her against him, he indulged the crowd, the facade of marital bliss playing out before their eyes. The kiss, though brief, lingered with a bitter aftertaste on Harry's lips. As they parted, she giggled, casually wiping away the lipstick with her thumb, her ring gleaming in front of his eyes.

"I'm so happy," she whispered.

He managed a smile, straightening up and letting his hands slide from her back to return to his sides. Nonchalantly picking a petal from his hair, he replied, "Yeah, me too."

The pealing of the bells seemed to drown out the cheers of the crowd, a haunting reminder of the irreversible step he had taken.

Later on, the celebration at Harry's family estate unfolded with orchestrated perfection. The garden buzzed with laughter and animated conversations, while the grandeur of the occasion radiated through the air. As Harry adeptly played his part – smiling at guests, engaging in conversations with long-lost relatives, and strolling arm-in-arm with Camille – he couldn't escape the weight of the role he was forced to play.

Seeking respite, he quietly slipped away from the lively garden and made his way to a marble bar situated in a more secluded corner of the estate. Pouring himself a generous amount of whisky, he sensed someone approaching behind him.

"So, you're the infamous Harry Styles?" The man's dishevelled curly brown hair and flushed cheeks betrayed the effects of a bit too much liquor, heavy and loud Irish accent making Harry wince..

"Want a drink?"

"Always," the man replied, taking a seat on the stool.

It was there that Harry discovered the man was Niall Horan, an associate from the law firm who had been working under his father for the past two years. As the uncorked bottles and the haze of alcohol permeated the room, their conversation meandered from work to cars, music, golf, sports, and eventually, to relationships.

Harry, grimacing at the familiar narrative, listened intently. Niall spoke passionately about a girl who seemed to have captured his heart. He detailed the extravagant lengths he went to impress her – the expensive dates, dresses, makeup, and designer bags. He spoke of her beauty and his unwavering commitment to marrying her.

"But you're a lucky lad," Niall declared as they clinked glasses for what felt like the umpteenth time.

"I don't know if it's luck," Harry responded honestly. "But my father would tell you that I am."

Niall's eyebrows shot up to his hairline as he leaned against the bar. "No way," he exclaimed, a bit too loudly for the circ*mstances. "You got arranged together?"

Harry nodded, breaking the unspoken barrier as he shared, for the first time, the intricate details of his relationship with his father. He spoke of Harvard, Camille, and the delicate dance of familial expectations. While he omitted the specific details about Louis and the clandestine nights with other men, there was an unspoken understanding in Niall's gaze that suggested he might already be privy to more than what was said.

"Well, I say let's drink to that. And to hell with those bloody birds," Niall proposed with a hearty laugh, prompting Harry to join in the mirth, clinking their glasses once more.

An hour later, in a drunken haze, he had left Niall in order to go find the restroom, hoping that cold water would ease the dizziness in his mind. The world seemed to sway as he stumbled through the dimly lit hallways of his family home, the echo of laughter and merriment from the festivities downstairs faded to a distant hum as he ascended the staircase, supported by the railing.

His father, Desmond, intercepted him before he could retreat. "Harry," his stern voice cut through the alcohol-induced fog.

Harry turned, his eyes struggling to focus on his father's face.

"Let's talk," Desmond had said, guiding Harry upstairs to the office. The door closed behind them, shutting out the remnants of the celebration.

As they entered the office, Harry, in his dishevelled state, swayed unsteadily. The room seemed to spin, and his father's words became a distant murmur. Desmond, unfazed, tossed a set of keys onto the mahogany desk. The metallic clatter echoed in the quiet room, and suddenly, Harry felt a jolt of sobriety.

"From today on, you are a husband. You'll provide for her, take care of her, show her love and respect," Desmond declared, not bothering to meet his son's gaze. "You are twenty-three, Harry. By next year, I expect to have a grandson. This," he continued, finally standing up and locking eyes with Harry, who fought back tears, his blazer draped around his forearm, tie half undone, "are the keys to your new house. Your grandpa left it for you. For that precise day."

Staring at the keys, Harry's mind whirred with the weight of the responsibility thrust upon him. The ring on his finger felt like a burning reminder, and he couldn't tear his eyes away from it. Thoughts of Gemma's warnings echoed in his mind, and he wondered if returning home had been a mistake.

"Make me proud, Harry. I didn't waste my time and money raising you for you to disappoint me."

When all the guests had left, a cab carried Harry and Camille to their new homes.

The townhouse stood proudly in the chic area of Belgravia, its façade adorned with ivy and a wrought-iron gate that led to a small garden.

Upon entering through the heavy oak door, the foyer was covered with dark marble flooring and an elegant crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling. The walls were adorned with tasteful artwork, and a grand staircase with a polished mahogany bannister led to the upper floors.

The living room, to the right of the foyer, boasted large windows adorned with heavy drapes that allowed in just the right amount of natural light. Plush velvet sofas in rich hues of burgundy and navy surrounded a mahogany coffee table, creating an inviting space for entertaining. A fireplace, intricately designed with marble, served as the focal point of the room.

Adjacent to the living room, the dining room featured a long, polished walnut table with high-back upholstered chairs. A sparkling crystal chandelier hung above, casting a warm glow on the meticulously set table. Fine china, silverware, and crystal glasses awaited the next formal dinner.

The kitchen, tucked away but no less luxurious, featured modern appliances seamlessly integrated into custom wood cabinetry. A large island with a marble countertop provided ample space for food preparation, and a cosy breakfast nook with a round table and plush seating offered a more casual dining option.

As the newlyweds entered, Camille's excitement was palpable. She marvelled at the tasteful decor and gushed about their new life together. Harry, however, felt a knot tightening in his stomach. The walls seemed to close in on him, and the air became heavy with the weight of his hidden truth.

Once Camille excused herself to freshen up, Harry remained downstairs, drowning his discomfort in alcohol. The crystal glasses clinked, the amber liquid poured, and the silence echoed in the opulent yet empty rooms. The subtle ticking of a vintage clock became a constant reminder of the inexorable passage of time. As Camille ascended the staircase, Harry's internal struggle intensified. He watched her disappear behind the bedroom door, each step she took away from him feeling like a step into a future he never desired.

He came to the realisation that most of their belongings, carefully arranged, had already found their place in the house, patiently waiting to be utilised. It dawned on him that his father had orchestrated this meticulously, and that this, right here and now, marked the beginning of his new life.

In the serene living room, the subdued glow of lamplight played across the surroundings as he poured himself yet another drink, the amber liquid mirroring the tumult within his mind. His gaze fixated on the ring adorning his finger, the motion of his other hand ceasing its absentminded turning of the glass. A gulp resonated through the room as he lifted his eyes toward the staircase.

Resigned to the inevitable, Harry ascended the stairs with heavy steps. The bedroom door loomed ahead, a symbolic threshold to a life he entered with reluctance. Pausing, he felt the weight of the gold wedding band on his finger intensify with each passing second, signalling the inexorable reality awaiting him beyond the door.

Opening the door, he found Camille waiting, alluring in her white lace nightgown, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. The room smelled of perfume and dreams of marital bliss. She smiled warmly, oblivious to the conflict in Harry's eyes.

When she had drawn near, her perfect manicured nails and wavy hair framing her face, her lips tinted a rosy hue from the expensive Parisian lipstick her father bestowed upon her, Harry had strained to conjure a smile, concealing the turmoil raging within. When her hands delicately landed on his tie, leisurely pulling it loose, his throat tightened with an audible gulp. He stared at her without truly seeing, lost in the tempest swirling within him.

It was at that precise moment that he realised his life no longer belonged to him. To preserve the safety and comfort surrounding him, he would have to play his role in this relentless game.

As if a dam burst within him, unleashing a flood of anger, rage, injustice, fear, and sadness, he seized her face, pulling her towards him for a reluctant kiss. His eyes clenched shut, he guided her backward to the bed, bidding a silent farewell to the life he once knew.

And if, amidst the chaotic whirlwind, he had whispered Louis' name in the recesses of his mind, it remained a secret known only to him.

Chapter 3: Daydreaming

Chapter Text

A year later.

The early morning sun casted a golden hue on the cobblestone streets of London as Harry manoeuvred his Ford Thunderbird through the city's vibrant landscape. The classic car rumbled with a distinct engine growl, attracting admiring glances from passersby who marvelled at the sleek lines and polished chrome.

Dressed in a tailored charcoal grey suit, Harry cut a dashing figure behind the wheel. The suit, perfectly fitted, showcased his lean frame, and the narrow tie completed the ensemble with an air of sophistication. His dark, wavy hair, meticulously styled, featured a loose strand artfully falling onto his forehead, a nod to the fashion trends of the era. The rest was slicked perfectly to the side, framing his chiselled features.

Pulling up near the office, Harry parked the Thunderbird with effortless grace. As he closed the car door with a confident thud, his ring caught the sunlight, casting a fleeting sparkle. With each step, his broad shoulders moved in a confident rhythm, drawing attention to his commanding presence. The city buzzed around him, but Harry walked with an air of casual assurance, his green eyes reflecting a self-assured gaze.

With his polished briefcase in hand, Harry strolled down the sidewalk, each step purposeful. His suit clung to his broad frame, accentuating his silhouette, and the world seemed to pause as he traversed the street. The sidewalk became his runway, and the curious glances from passersby, predominantly women, confirmed his magnetic appeal.

He revelled in the attention, a subtle smile playing on his lips. The allure of his stride, the effortless confidence, had an undeniable effect on those around him. Women turned their heads, exchanging glances, whispers of admiration trailing in his wake. Entering the small coffee shop adjacent to the office, the familiar jingle of the bell greeted him. The regulars acknowledged him with nods and smiles, and a few passing glances lingered a moment longer. The old coffee lady behind the counter beamed as Harry approached.

As he approached the counter to order, the old coffee lady behind the counter beamed as Harry approached, well acquainted with his preferences, “The usual?”

Harry brought his briefcase on the counter, his elbow following suit as he checked his silver watch. “Absolutely, thank you.” He flashed a polite smile, the charm that seemed to come effortlessly.

With his coffee in hand, Harry left the shop, the subtle turn of his head acknowledging the unspoken admiration around him. The city embraced him as he continued his journey to work, a captivating figure in the London morning, leaving a trail of intrigued gazes in his wake.

“Good morning, Mr. Styles.”

“Morning, Susan.”

Making his way down the corridor, he reached his office door, the gold plaque bearing his name still giving him this particular sense of power. With a final sweep of his hand through his perfectly styled hair, he entered, ready to tackle the day.

"Oi!" The booming voice caught him off guard, nearly causing him to almost spill his coffee, but it coaxed a dimple to form on his face.

Turning away from the door, he registered the disapproving looks from their more senior colleagues, their expressions stern and judgmental. However, as always, Niall, impeccably dressed in his brown suit, approached Harry with an infectious grin, giving his shoulder an enthusiastic tap.

“Pint tonight at the pub? It’s Friday!”

Harry chuckled, guiding Niall into his office and closing the door behind them. Walking over to his desk, he carefully placed his cup and briefcase, swiftly scanning for files and his appointment planner. He blew out a breath, the strand on his forehead swaying with the exhale.

In the months following Harry's wedding to Camille, his connection with Niall had deepened, evolving into a bond that transcended the workplace. Niall, with his infectious joy and unwavering support, became a reliable presence in Harry's life. Their camaraderie blossomed at work, Niall's friendly demeanour and genuine personality made him approachable, and Harry found solace in his company. It started with casual conversations, shared jokes, and a few after-work drinks that gradually transformed into a routine.

Niall had became a real support, a ray of sun in Harry's constent daydream.

Because in the year following his marriage to Camille, Harry meticulously played the role of the dutiful husband and son, orchestrating a facade of marital bliss that seemed convincing to the outside world. His family, staunchly rooted in their Christian values, found solace in the picturesque image of the newlywed couple attending Sunday service together. To them, it was a testament to the strength of the family legacy, a legacy that Harry was determined to protect at all costs.

And Camille, the portrait of grace and commitment, embraced her role with unwavering dedication.

Her love for Harry radiated through every meticulously prepared meal, every supportive smile, and every shared moment. In the eyes of society, theirs was a union to be envied. Within the confines of their immaculate home, Harry and Camille navigated the intricacies of married life. The dinners were adorned with polite conversation, the evenings punctuated by shared laughter as they watched television together.

As time wore on, the lines between truth and falsehood began to blur, and Harry found himself lost in a labyrinth of conflicting emotions.

On some days, he would genuinely feel a spark of affection for his wife, their laughter echoing through the kitchen as they shared intimate moments together. The warmth of her touch would momentarily soothe the ache in his heart, and he would convince himself that this was the love he had always longed for.

Yet, amidst the bustling streets of London, Harry's facade would crack under the weight of unspoken desires. The sight of a remarkably attractive man would send a shiver down his spine, igniting a firestorm of emotions that he struggled to contain. Memories of stolen kisses and shared secrets would flood his mind, forcing him to confront the stark contrast between the life he lived and the desires that simmered beneath the surface.

Harry grappled with the conflicting facets of his existence—the polished facade he presented to the world and the stirring desires that threatened to consume him. Each chance encounter served as a painful reminder of the sacrifices he had made and the price he had paid to uphold the illusion of his marriage.

The Sunday church services, once a source of solace, had evolved into both sanctuary and internal turmoil for Harry. As hymns resonated through sacred halls, he sought comfort in the belief that God's infinite mercy would absolve the transgressions of his youth. However, the burden of his hidden truths weighed heavily on his conscience, creating a silent battleground between the church's teachings and the undeniable truth of his own desires.

Unaware of the tumult raging within Harry, Camille continued to shower love into their shared life. Hand in hand, they navigated social events with smiles that concealed the intricacies of Harry's emotional landscape. In these moments, he derived solace from the ability to offer Camille a semblance of happiness, even as it necessitated the suppression of his own yearnings.

At times, Harry found himself believing in the life he had crafted with Camille. Genuine laughter would escape him, and as they lay in bed, her form draped around his, he would convince himself that this was where he belonged. Gradually, the memories of his past yielded to new souvenirs, fresh images, and novel sounds. In those moments, Harry dared to hope that this life—a life intertwined with Camille—was the right one for him.

The sound of Niall's heels slamming on the desk as he brought his legs upon the surface forced Harry out of his reverie, making him blink. “Yeah. Definitely.” He answered.

“Long day?” Niall asked, toying with Harry’s framed Oxford diploma.

Harry sighed, allowing himself to collapse into the leather chair. “It’s just bloody Thompson again.”

“I can’t believe the old man is giving you divorce and estate cases. You could do so much.”

Niall approached, climbing onto the desk and settling down on a pile of papers, prompting an eyebrow raise from Harry.

“I don’t think I could endure murders, Niall.”

“But it’s so much fun.”

As Harry was about to respond, the ring of his phone made both of them jump. He nudged Niall off his desk, the brunette nearly toppling to the ground with a disgruntled sound.

"Mr. Styles, Mr. Thompson is here."

"Send him in," Harry instructed.

Niall adjusted his blazer while Harry attempted to organise the mess created by Niall's posterior on his files, placing the briefcase on the floor and taking a sip of coffee. His fingers reached for his client’s file.

“See you tonight! Same spot.”

The late afternoon sun already started to disappear through the large windows of Harry's office, painting a pattern of shadows across the polished mahogany desk. The air in the room was tinged with tension as Harry sat behind his desk, waiting for his client, Mr. Thompson, to arrive. The door opened, and the tense atmosphere was heightened as Mr. Thompson walked in, a scowl etched across his face.

"Mr. Styles, about time you got this sorted. I can't stand being shackled to that woman any longer," Thompson barked, taking a seat without waiting for an invitation.

Harry maintained a calm demeanour, his hands folding on top of the desk. "I understand, Mr. Thompson. Divorce is a serious matter, and I'm here to help you. However, I would like to discuss all options thoroughly to ensure a fair resolution for both parties."

Thompson leaned back in his chair, eyeing Harry with suspicion. "Fair? I just want to get rid of her. Why should I care about fairness?"

Harry leaned forward, keeping his tone measured. "Fairness is not just about you, Mr. Thompson. It's about ensuring that both parties can move forward with their lives in a way that minimises harm. Now, the law hasn't fully caught up yet, but I believe we can find a solution that works for everyone."

Thompson scoffed, "Fine, as long as I get what I want. No alimony, and she can’t keep the house."

Harry nodded, "Let's talk about the house. If she's been residing there, it might be in her best interest to keep it, especially if there are children involved. We can negotiate a fair division of assets that considers her well-being."

Thompson grumbled but seemed to consider Harry's words. "And what about the kids? I don't want them dragging me down."

Harry remained composed, "Child custody is another crucial aspect. It's important to prioritise the children's welfare. We can discuss visitation rights, ensuring both parents remain involved in their lives."

As the conversation unfolded, Harry skillfully navigated the negotiation, attempting to guide Mr. Thompson towards a resolution that, while satisfying his desire for separation, also protected the interests of the wife and children.

As the clock ticked away the hours, Harry found himself immersed in the complexities of Mr. Thompson's marital turmoil. The man's eagerness to sever ties with his wife exuded an unsettling tension throughout the meeting. Eventually, the negotiation reached a tentative agreement, leaving Harry drained and disheartened by the lack of empathy displayed.

After the long and arduous meeting, Harry sighed as he gathered the necessary documents into his briefcase, feeling the weight of the emotional baggage that often accompanied divorce cases. The familiar sound of the office door closing echoed through the empty corridor, signalling the end of another taxing day.

As he made his way to the exit, his father's voice resonated from down the hall. "Harry, a moment, please."

Turning on his heel, Harry retraced his steps to find his father lingering in the hallway. The older man's stern expression hinted at a conversation that Harry wasn't particularly looking forward to.

"How are things going with Camille?" His father inquired, the question carrying an unspoken expectation.

Suppressing a surge of frustration, Harry forced a smile. "Everything's going smoothly. No issues."

His father nodded, seemingly satisfied with the reassurance. "Good to hear. Are you heading home now?"

Harry hesitated for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "Actually, I'm meeting Niall for a drink. Need a bit of a breather."

A subtle frown creased his father's forehead. "You should be spending more time at home, Harry. Camille needs your attention. Prioritise your marriage over drinks with friends."

Internally seething, Harry maintained his composed exterior. "I just need this tonight. I'll make it up to her."

His father's disapproval lingered, but Harry simply nodded and excused himself, his steps echoing in the corridor as he made his way out of the office building.

The pub's weathered sign swung gently in the evening breeze, its faint creak audible over the hum of muted chatter and the occasional clinking of glasses. As Harry pushed open the creaky wooden door, a cloud of cigarette smoke enveloped him. The dimly lit interior revealed worn wooden tables scattered across the room, each adorned with a set of mismatched chairs. The air was thick with the scent of tobacco, mingling with the comforting aroma of ale and the distant notes of a jukebox playing a classic rock tune. Overhead, the low ceiling pressed down on the patrons, creating an intimate and somewhat claustrophobic setting.

The patrons, a mix of regulars and occasional visitors, huddled in groups, engrossed in animated conversations or nursing pints of beer. The bar, a weathered oak structure, stood as the focal point of the room, manned by a grizzled bartender who expertly poured drinks for the clientele.

Harry navigated through the crowded space, carefully avoiding the groups of men engaged in lively banter. He passed by a jukebox, its colourful lights flickering in sync with the music, and approached the bar, momentarily considering ordering a drink before spotting Niall in a secluded booth at the corner of the room.

The booth's vinyl-covered seats bore the wear and tear of countless patrons, and the dim lighting cast shadows on the tabletop strewn with empty glasses. Niall, his curly hair slightly tousled, sat with an air of casual confidence, nursing a half-empty pint.

Harry made his way to the booth, weaving through the crowd. As he approached, Niall looked up, a wide grin spreading across his face.

"Harry! Right on time, mate," Niall exclaimed, raising his pint glass in a toast.

Harry slid into the opposite side of the booth, a tired smile forming on his face. "Long day, but a drink is much needed."

Niall chuckled, taking a sip of his beer. "Tell me about it.”

The banter between them flowed effortlessly, Niall's exuberant personality creating an atmosphere of easy camaraderie that allowed Harry to unwind and share genuine laughs. Niall's infectious joy reverberated through the pub, his boisterous laughter weaving seamlessly into the ambient sounds of clinking glasses and lively chatter. As the night wore on and the drinks continued to flow, Niall's Irish accent grew more pronounced, each word resonating with a distinct cadence that echoed the joviality of the evening.

Amid the convivial ambiance, they decided to step outside for a smoke, the crisp night air providing a welcome contrast to the warmth of the crowded pub. The glow of the streetlamp cast a soft halo, creating a dimly lit tableau on the quiet sidewalk. They stood beneath the lamplight, their silhouettes briefly illuminated by the soft glow. The tendrils of smoke from their cigarettes curled upward, merging with the nocturnal stillness.

Niall's eyes suddenly sparkled with excitement as he exhaled the smoke, a radiant smile on his face. The subdued hum of the pub seemed to fade away as he leaned in, eager to share his news.

"Oh, mate, you won't believe it! I finally did it. I proposed to Amelia, and she said yes!" Niall's voice rang with joy, the enthusiasm palpable in every word.

Harry, maintaining a supportive grin, lifted his own pint in a congratulatory gesture. "That's fantastic, Niall! Congratulations! I'm thrilled for you."

Niall continued, animatedly recounting the details of the proposal, the emotions he felt, and the overwhelming joy that now filled his heart. The pub's atmosphere, which had been a backdrop for countless stories, seemed to amplify Niall's jubilation.

As Niall shared anecdotes about Amelia and their journey together, Harry's smile became more restrained. He listened attentively, nodding at the appropriate moments, but a shadow crept into his eyes. The realisation lingered, unspoken, that he couldn't mirror Niall's excitement.

Niall, oblivious to the subtle shift in Harry's demeanour, leaned back in the booth, a dreamy look on his face. "Harry, she's amazing. I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with her. Everything feels so right."

Harry offered a genuine but somewhat distant smile. "I'm happy for you, Niall. It's a big step, and it sounds like you're both in for something incredible."

Inside, Harry grappled with his own thoughts, the dissonance between the expectations placed upon him and the reality of his emotions.

As Harry stumbled through the door, the weight of the night's drinks evident in the slight sway of his step, he fumbled with the keys before finally gaining entry. The warm, inviting glow of the foyer welcomed him, contrasting with the chilly darkness of the night outside. Camille, adorned in her sleeping gown with her hair secured in curlers, appeared from the hallway, her expression a mix of concern and disapproval.

"Harry, you're late," she chided, her tone measured but revealing a touch of displeasure. "I was worried. Why didn't you call?"

He offered a sheepish grin, the alcohol-induced haze softening the edges of his response. "Lost track of time. Sorry about that."

With a practised charm, Camille maintained a smile, through her eyes hinted at a lingering concern. "Well, your dinner is in the kitchen. I can reheat it for you."

Harry waved off the offer. "Nah, already ate with Niall. Thanks, though."

"Oh, Niall.” The name seemed to irk Camille, but she concealed it behind a gracious façade. “That's nice,"

As Harry started to fumble with his tie, rolling his neck to alleviate the tension, Camille seized the opportunity to bridge the emotional gap. She approached him from behind, her hands gently sliding over his shoulders, attempting to seduce him into intimacy.

"We should go to bed then," She whispered, her tone filled with longing. "I missed you."

He hesitated, evading the suggestion with a nonchalant smile. "I'm a bit tired, and I need a shower.”

With that, he managed to slip away, leaving Camille downstairs as he retreated.

The next morning, the rhythm of the house was set in its usual order. Harry, adorned in his tailored suit, was in the bathroom meticulously grooming himself—slicking his hair back and applying a hint of cologne. Meanwhile, downstairs, Camille moved about the kitchen with practised ease, the epitome of a perfect housewife in her yellow dress with flawless hair.

Upon descending, Harry found the kitchen prepped for his departure. Placing his briefcase down, he sat without a word, mechanically picking up a piece of toast and sipping his coffee, absorbed in the morning newspaper. He sensed Camille's gaze on him, her eyes pleading for attention.

Sighing inwardly, he reluctantly lowered the newspaper, shifting his focus to the woman across the table. "Something wrong?" he asked, feigning casual interest.

"Nothing," she replied, her voice soft, though tension lingered in the air.

Returning to his reading, Harry continued to eat, stuffing more toast into his mouth and checking his watch. The room fell into a silence punctuated only by the rustling of the newspaper and the clink of cutlery.

Then, Camille sighed again, this time louder, signalling an impending conversation. Sensing her approach, Harry paused, ceasing his chewing.

"Didn't you notice?" she said.

Harry furrowed his brow, glancing around the room, trying to discern what she was talking about. "Um... Are those new curtains? Good colour. Although I'm not sure of that shade of green."

Her face fell, and the small spoon clinked against her tea. "I changed my nails colour," she stated, a hint of irritation in her voice.

"Oh," he said, looking down quickly, "It's... nice."

"Julie is pregnant," she uttered, the words hanging in the air like an unexpected storm.

Harry's eyes widened, and he almost choked on his toast. He looked at Camille, the surprise evident on his face as he processed the unexpected news. The revelation lingered between them, casting a shadow over the once-still morning, and Harry braced himself for the inevitable discussion that would follow.

"And... I guess I've just been wondering. We never really talked about children."

Camille's words hung in the air, creating a palpable tension in the room. The unexpected revelation had caught Harry off guard, and he fumbled for a response.

"We never talked about children," she repeated, her gaze fixed on him.

Harry cleared his throat, his mind racing for a suitable reply. "Well, I mean, I thought we had time for that conversation."

"But time is passing, Harry. We've been married for a while now. Don’t you think that we should discuss our future?"

Trying to evade the impending conversation, Harry glanced at his watch, feigning urgency. "Look, I've got an important meeting at the office today, and I need to leave early. We can talk about this later, okay?"

Camille's eyes narrowed slightly, but she relented. "Fine.”

With that, he hastily finished his toast, gulped down the remaining coffee, and grabbed his briefcase. "I promise we'll talk about it," he assured her, avoiding eye contact.

As he headed for the door, Camille's voice stopped him in his tracks. "Don't forget, you need to pick a suit for Niall's wedding. It's in a few days, and you can't go without a proper suit."

Harry's eyes widened as he mentally groaned. He had momentarily forgotten about Niall's upcoming wedding. Trying to keep his composure, he turned back to her. "Right, the suit. I'll take care of it.."

Camille nodded, a mix of concern and disappointment in her eyes. "Take care, Harry. We'll talk later, okay?"

With a forced smile that barely concealed his nervousness, Harry practically sprinted toward the door, taking large, hurried steps on his way to the awaiting car. The briefcase landed on the passenger seat with a careless toss as he flung himself into the plush leather, neglecting to even buckle up. Ignoring the safety precautions, he cranked up the stereo to its maximum volume. The raw electric guitar riffs resonated through the car, Mick Jagger's voice reverberating in sync with the pounding of Harry's heart as he pressed down on the accelerator, swiftly departing the confines of his propriety.

Chapter 4: Little lies

Chapter Text

"Harry, we're late!"

The relentless call echoed through the room as Harry struggled to complete his preparations in a two-piece suit. The sun's rays spilled into the room, casting an unforgiving light on his high-waisted flare pants and cream-coloured polo, emphasising the subtle elegance he tried to convey. A calculated choice of leaving a button strategically open hinted at a glimpse of his cross necklace. As he adjusted his hair and adorned the expensive watch bestowed upon him by his father, Camille's impatient voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"Harry!"

He sighed, moving through the corridor and averting his eyes from the framed picture his mother proudly displayed—the frozen moment of his and Camille's wedding day kiss in front of the Cathedral, an image he avoided whenever he passed by. Upon opening the bathroom door, Camille's back faced him as she bent over to put on her heels. The long purple dress she wore was entirely open at the back, revealing her skin. An instinctive reflex urged Harry to look away.

"Darling, can you zip me up?" she requested without glancing back.

He approached her cautiously, his fingers handling the zipper of her dress and slowly pulling it all the way up. He then helped her with her hair, grabbing it softly and letting the wavy curls fall down her back.

"There you go,"

She turned to face him, extending her arms after adjusting her hair, her eyes shimmering with excitement.

"How do I look?" she inquired.

"Good, as always."

She smiled, seemingly oblivious, and pressed on her tiptoes to kiss him.

"Let's go; we're already late," he suggested.

But she grabbed his forearm, her hands caressing his skin, her eyes reflecting a shimmer of admiration. "I can't believe I'm lucky enough to have you as a husband," she said with a shy blush. Her other hand moved to his neck, urging him into another kiss.

"Let's get you to the car, alright?" Taking her hand, he led her out of the room and toward the staircase. "Wouldn't want you to fall in those heels."

She laughed, allowing him to guide her down the stairs. "Always a gentleman."

The resounding 'pop' of the champagne cork reverberated through the opulent garden, eliciting a chorus of cheers and applause from the jubilant guests.

Niall and Amelia, the day's luminaries, embarked on a triumphant stroll across the expanse of manicured lawn. Hand in hand, their radiant smiles seemed to stretch from ear to ear as they traversed the verdant landscape, expressing gratitude and exchanging warm pleasantries with each well-wisher.

Perched atop the little hill, Niall's house, more aptly referred to as a villa, exuded an air of grandeur. Its pristine white façade stood as a testament to modernity, a departure from the traditional aesthetics of old London houses. The sprawling garden, an extension of their celebration, unfolded beneath the clear sky, boasting a golf course, a sparkling swimming pool, and an impressive array of vintage cars parked in strategic elegance.

The melodic strains of music emanated from a vintage record player, gracefully carried by the breeze through the open double French doors, inviting guests into the palatial interior of the villa. Fairy lights adorned the surroundings, tracing a luminous path through the air. An ornate arch, adorned with an array of delicate flowers, created a captivating focal point, while the tantalising aroma of a barbecue wafted through the gentle breeze.

The guests, meticulously attired for the joyous occasion, showcased a vibrant display of sartorial elegance. Men donned impeccably tailored suits, complete with neatly knotted ties

and perfectly styled hair that mirrored the prevailing fashion of the era. The women, adorned in elegant dresses and skirts, showcased wavy hairstyles and artfully applied makeup.

Meanwhile, Harry stood alone in retreat, as he observed the festivities through the prism of his brandy glass, a hint of jealousy flickered in his gaze. Niall, effortlessly navigating the crowd, engaged in animated conversations with his characteristic loud laugh and an unwavering, infectious smile that seemed to monopolise the limelight.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a soft, golden hue across the landscape, a group of guests gathered near the pool, where the water shimmered in the fading light. Laughter echoed as some dared each other to take a late-evening dip, while others opted to lounge on plush outdoor furniture, enjoying the balmy night.

The wedding had unfolded like a painting of perfection—tears, laughter, and eyes filled with love and hope.

Niall, radiating charm, donned a tailored navy blue suit, a crisp white shirt, and a stylish floral-patterned tie. His tousled brown hair was neatly combed, and a boutonniere mirrored the flowers in Amelia's bouquet. Amelia, the epitome of a blushing bride, graced the occasion in a flowing ivory gown with delicate lace sleeves. The dress cinched at the waist before cascading into a graceful train. A tiara adorned her intricately braided hair, securing a simple yet stunning veil. Her bouquet, a mix of white and blush roses, complemented the ceremony's floral theme.

Harry, lost in thoughts as he gazed at his wedding ring, tucked his hand into his pocket as a soft shuffle of footsteps approached from behind. Harry turned to find his father, a cigar in hand, a distinct aroma wafting through the night air.

"Harry," his father greeted, exhaling a puff of smoke. "Quite the celebration Niall has put together."

Harry offered a nod, a silent acknowledgment of the festivities. His father, always one for straight talk, wasted no time delving into more personal matters.

"So," his father continued, studying his son's face with an astute gaze. "Any news on the family front? I expected Camille to be expecting by now."

Harry's jaw tensed, his discomfort palpable. He cleared his throat, searching for the right words. "Well, you know how it is. We're taking our time, enjoying each other's company."

His father raised an eyebrow, exhaling another plume of smoke. "Taking your time, hmm? Your mother and I were expecting to hear the pitter-patter of little feet by now, Harry."

Harry shifted uneasily, his eyes briefly glancing towards Niall and Amelia, still dancing with carefree abandon. "It's not always that simple. We're figuring things out."

His father scrutinised him, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Figuring things out? You're a young couple; you shouldn't be having trouble in that department. Maybe it's time you took a more proactive approach."

The pressure of the conversation weighed heavily on Harry. He felt a pang of frustration, knowing that his father couldn't understand the complexities of his situation. "These things take time. We're just not ready."

His father took a contemplative drag from the cigar before flicking off the ash. "Well, Harry, time waits for no one. You're the heir to the family name; we need an heir to carry it forward."

"Listen," Harry started, his voice emerging more annoyed and menacing than he had anticipated, as he turned fully to his father with a penetrating glare. Just as he was about to speak, his sister, Gemma, came up behind him, her hand grazing his lower back.

"Hello there," she greeted with a smile, exchanging a quick glance with her brother, a subtle warning. "Mom is looking for you," she said to their father.

The old man glanced between his children, releasing a sigh of annoyance as he raised his glass toward them in a cheer, his eyes fixed on Harry. "We'll talk," he stated before excusing himself.

As the mellow jazz tunes gracefully gave way to the lively beats of the Bee Gees song, the atmosphere in Niall's garden transformed. The guests, caught in the infectious rhythm of the disco hit, began to sway, laugh, and dance with newfound energy. Harry, feeling the infectious joy of the music, found himself letting go of the stress and frustration that had weighed him down.

Gemma, still by Harry's side, twirled him around with contagious enthusiasm. The fairy lights above seemed to dance in sync with the joyous mood. Laughter echoed through the air as couples and friends twirled each other, embracing the carefree spirit of the evening.

In the midst of the revelry, as Gemma playfully swayed with her brother, their laughter mingling with the music, a sudden collision brought an unexpected twist to the dance. Harry, spun around with unbridled enthusiasm, accidentally bumped into Niall. The two men, momentarily startled, burst into hearty laughter that echoed in sync with the disco beats.

Without missing a beat, Niall and Harry embraced the unexpected encounter, seamlessly transitioning from a collision to a spontaneous dance partnership. Their movements mirrored the carefree spirit of the music, as they twirled, shuffled, and laughed together. The crowd around them cheered, appreciating the impromptu performance.

For a fleeting moment, the weight of Harry's inner turmoil dissipated, replaced by the liberating joy of the music and the warmth of newfound camaraderie. The garden transformed into a haven of laughter and dance. And Niall, in his drunken state, hugged Harry with force, patting his back with energy.

"Mate," Niall said, as they parted, "I need to introduce you to someone."

Without awaiting a response, Niall seized Harry by the elbow, compelling him to trail along with his eager strides across the grass. The distant sound of Harry's name being called reached his ears, prompting him to glance over his shoulder. The neighbour's daughter stood there, waving with a slight blush on her face. Harry awkwardly raised his glass in a polite salute before redirecting his focus ahead, afraid of stumbling.

"I swear, mate, you absolutely need to meet him; you'll love him!" Niall exclaimed, tugging Harry around as though he were weightless.

The lively atmosphere of Niall's wedding surrounded Harry as he strolled through the vibrant garden, a glass in hand, with Niall tugging him along. The air was filled with laughter, the aroma of barbecue, and the sweet melodies of music. Harry, caught up in the festivities, was curious about the person Niall was eager to introduce.

As they navigated the lively crowd, Harry spotted familiar faces, exchanging greetings and hugs. When Niall led him toward a group of people conversing by the terrace, Harry's eyes widened with surprise and delight as he saw Liam.

"Bloody hell, Liam!" Liam turned, his perfect blue suit emphasising the warmth in his brown eyes.

Arms opened wide, they embraced, patting each other on the back, and with a fond look, Liam pulled away. "Look at you! It's been so long."

Before Harry could respond, Niall once again tugged him, forcing him to turn around and join the circle.

"Harry, this is Louis Tomlinson. Louis, this is Harry Styles."

The world seemed to blur as music faded, ears ringing, heart pounding, and hot waves rushed through his body.

At the first glimpse of Louis across the vibrant garden, Harry's world seemed to momentarily stop. The air was knocked out of his lungs, and his lips instinctively fell apart, mirroring the same reaction Louis had. Something flickered in Louis' eyes, an unmistakable recognition that transcended the facade of the present. Those eyes, still an incredibly deep blue, unleashed a tidal wave of memories that crashed into Harry's consciousness.

Louis stood there in a perfectly designed black suit that hugged his thin waist and thighs flawlessly. His hair had grown longer and acquired a slight curl, a departure from the familiar straight locks of their Oxford days. A hint of subtle stubble adorned his chin and upper lip, his jaw now more defined and his features more manly, yet retaining their delicate allure.

In the midst of the invisible current that bound them, the party continued around the pair, oblivious to the silent exchange. Liam and Niall chatted and revealed in the celebration, unaware of the unfolding drama between Harry and Louis.

Louis, the master of concealment, extended his hand with a cordial smile, as if they were meeting for the first time. "Nice to meet you," he said, the practised facade masking the depth of his emotions.

Harry, trapped in a whirlwind of conflicting feelings, found himself unable to break eye contact.

For a fleeting moment, time stood still. Harry observed the changes in Louis since their Oxford days—the maturity etched in his features, the subtle lines around his eyes, and a quiet strength replacing the youthful exuberance of their shared history. As the ringing in his ears dissipated and the music returned, Harry slowly extended his hand, fingers closing around Louis' wrist and knuckles. The contact was a delicate torture, but he couldn't resist.

"Harry," he stammered.

Their hands met, fingers intertwining, an electric charge surging through both men. Their eyes, however, betrayed a history that neither could erase—the shared secrets, stolen moments, and the unspoken connection that had bound them in the past.

"It's a pleasure," Louis replied with that same raspy voice that had deepened over the years.

As their hands lingered together, the intensity of their gaze deepened. Harry was sure Niall was saying something next to him, but the only thing he could see, feel, and breathe was Louis and the contact of his skin against his. And when Louis tightened his grasp on Harry's hand, and Harry's thumb twitched against his skin, they both understood that forgetting was an impossibility—one that neither of them desired.

Just as the intensity of their gaze threatened to unravel the carefully constructed facades, the moment was shattered by a sudden interruption.

"Honey,"

Startled, Harry jolted forward slightly as Camille, gracefully gilded against him, her arm clinging to his, forcing him to look down at her in surprise.

"I've been searching for you everywhere," she said, casting an oblivious smile toward the other men.

Suddenly, the urge to scream overwhelmed Harry. He wanted to push her away and explain himself to Louis, not wanting him to witness this. As he looked up, eyes involuntarily seeking out Louis, the small circle was empty. Louis had gracefully retreated, leaving behind the echoes of their shared history in the crowded garden. Harry's eyes were wide, his chest heaving as he tried to gaze through the crowd for his silhouette, but Camille was speaking to him again. As he looked down at her, frowning and annoyed, his eyes quickly met Liam's, knowing and wary.

“I need the loo," he said to her, a kind hand on her shoulder, a barely there smile, before he walked away from their circle.

He slipped in between the glass double doors and into the luxurious house, not taking the care or time to look for details in the living room or the kitchen. He made his way down the long, pristine corridor, his steps decisive as he retraced Louis’ path. But he had to stop when he arrived at the corner.

Louis had his back to him, and someone was helping him with his coat. A man, seemingly older, was assisting Louis into his coat, patting at the lapels and adjusting the collar, his eyes kind and dedicated, focused solely on Louis.

A pang of jealousy and regret surged through Harry, perhaps overthinking the situation. However, as soon as the man brought his hand to Louis’ lower back, opened the heavy wooden door, and ushered Louis out, with his own coat draped on his forearm, Harry’s heart sank.

Frozen in place, Harry could only watch without any reaction as the man led Louis out of the house, turning around to close the door behind them. As their eyes met, light blue and piercing but also menacing, they stared at each other for a moment too long. It wasn't enough for Louis to realise it, but Harry understood. When the man raised an eyebrow at him, with a smug smirk and the tiniest bow, Harry understood that Louis had moved on.

The evening air at Niall's wedding was filled with the warm glow of fairy lights, casting a magical ambiance over the celebration. As the night progressed, laughter and joy enveloped the gathered guests, their silhouettes dancing against the backdrop of the starlit sky.

Harry had intended to enjoy the festivities with a controlled level of intoxication. However, the celebratory spirits got the better of him, and he found himself swaying to the music with a drink in hand, the lines between sobriety and merriment blurring. The gentle notes of a slow song began to permeate the air, prompting couples to draw close for an intimate dance. Camille, radiant in her evening gown, approached Harry.

"Care for a dance, darling?" She asked, extending her hand.

He smiled at her, placing his glass down and rising from his chair. "Always, my love." He accepted it, guiding her to the centre of the makeshift dance floor.

As they embraced, Harry felt the warmth of Camille's presence, the scent of her perfume mingling with the night air. The soft strains of the music enveloped them, and they began to move in harmony, a slow dance that mirrored the tranquillity of the night.

Lost in the dance, Harry's gaze wandered across the venue and landed on Niall and Amelia. The newlyweds, wrapped in their own world of joy, exchanged laughter and kisses. A pang of guilt surged through Harry, the weight of his own secrets contrasting with the purity of Niall and Amelia's love.

In an attempt to dispel the haunting thoughts, Harry held Camille closer, their bodies moving together in a graceful sway. He tried to convince himself that this was enough, that the life he had built with Camille was what he needed.

Yet, as his eyes met hers, he couldn't shake the persistent memories of Louis and the man from his past. The faces of his clandestine encounters flickered in his mind, a testament to desires he had chosen to suppress. In a moment of confusion, Harry decided to kiss Camille, a desperate act to affirm the life he was living. His lips met hers, a fleeting touch that held a weight of conflicting emotions. Unbeknownst to him, his parents observed the scene with satisfaction, their expectations of the perfect couple momentarily fulfilled.

Nursing what he hoped was his last drink, Harry stood among a small gathering of men that had formed on the side of the house, away from the lively crowd, indulging in the shared vice of tobacco and revelling in the joyous celebration.

Niall, the centre of attention, was more than a bit drunk, his infectious laughter ringing out as he danced with Amelia.

"Well, well. Been avoiding me all evening, haven't you?" Liam, nursing a beer, suddenly patted him on the shoulders with a warm grin.

Harry, a bit taken aback, chuckled nervously. “I'm just letting the newlyweds enjoy their spotlight."

"Avoiding one spotlight just to step into another, eh? Never thought I'd see the day when you'd be dodging interviews and married to a woman."

Harry, momentarily destabilised, took a drag of his cigarette, exhaling slowly. "Life's full of surprises, mate. But, hey, let's not bring down the mood. This night's about Niall and Amelia."

Liam, still wearing a playful smile, leaned in a bit closer. "I never took you for the settling-down type, especially after... well, you know."

Harry, acutely aware of the unspoken reference to their shared past at Oxford, felt a twinge of discomfort. "People change, Liam.” He whispered, looking around them to be sure no one could hear. “Circ*mstances change."

Liam, cutting through the evasion, decided to address the elephant in the room. “So you’re in love then?’’ He turned around, his eyes spotting Camille at the distance, tilting his head. ‘’I reckon she’s pretty. But didn’t know you liked blondes.”

Harry, caught off guard, nodded hesitantly, clearing his throat. "Yeah, things change. I guess life happened."

"You guess?”

“Listen,’’ He turned to face Liam, blocking his view from Camille. ‘’I’m happy, okay? I don’t know why you are acting this way. I haven’t seen you in ages. And it’s not like we were friends.’’ He spat.

Liam stared down at him, a little smirk on his lips as he took a sip on his beer. “Have a great night, Harry. I’ll see you soon.”

As Niall continued to revel in the festivities, Harry grappled with the weight of Liam's direct inquiry. The memories of Louis and their shared past loomed in his mind, and the burning question of what Louis had been up to since their days at Oxford lingered unspoken.

The journey back home from Niall's wedding was a blur for Harry, swaying and stumbling, his drunken gait guided by the echoing laughter of Camille. She, in her elegant dress and perfect makeup, seemed to glow with devotion as she helped him out of his jacket. Harry, his mind clouded by alcohol, couldn't help but wonder how another man would have felt witnessing this scene – a beautiful woman, gracefully tending to her inebriated husband.

As Camille laughed and helped him out of his leather shoes, Harry's gaze lingered on her, his intoxicated mind projecting whispers and echoes of Louis' moaning voice. He blinked, shaking off the intrusive thoughts, and as she got up to dispose of the shoes, he stood abruptly, grabbing her wrist. The shoes slipped from her hands and fell to the ground, creating a soft thud.

"You look beautiful tonight," Harry said, his words more a mantra to convince himself than a genuine compliment.

Camille, surprised, blushed at his unexpected comment. Before she could respond, Harry leaned down and took her by the waist, pulling her into a fiery kiss. She gasped in response but melted into the kiss, her love for him evident in the way she responded to his every move.

In another life, Harry might have relished in the power he held over her, but now, it was merely a distraction.

Slowly, Harry guided her backward, their lips locked in a passionate dance. As they reached the foot of the stairs, he lifted her effortlessly into his arms, never breaking their kiss. The staircase seemed to stretch before them as Harry carried Camille upward, his mind desperately seeking solace in the embrace of the present, even as echoes of the past whispered in the recesses of his intoxicated consciousness.

Chapter 5: Lose yourself

Chapter Text

The encounter with Louis had left Harry in a state of emotional turmoil that surpassed his expectations. The reunion had unleashed a tempest of feelings, a complex storm that raged within the depths of his being. Louis' reappearance acted as a catalyst, tearing open an old wound that Harry had attempted to conceal and forget. The memories of their clandestine meetings, the stolen kisses, and the unfulfilled promises of a shared future flooded back with an intensity that took him by surprise.

Every moment with Louis flashed vividly before Harry's eyes, as if he were reliving the stolen glances, the whispered confessions, and the electric touch that had once defined their connection. It felt like a journey back to a time when his heart had known freedom, unburdened by the weight of societal expectations.

Yet, the harsh reality crashed over him like relentless waves. Louis, now seemingly content with someone else, stood as a poignant reminder of the life Harry was ensnared in. The unidentified man who accompanied Louis became an unwelcome spectre, a tangible representation of the alternate life that circ*mstances had denied him.

In the subsequent days, sleep became an elusive companion for Harry. He grappled with the shadows of the past, haunted by the memories of Louis. The vivid recollections of their intertwined fingers, the penetrating gaze that seemed to delve into his very soul, played like a haunting melody in his mind.

The weight of his marriage to Camille felt like an oppressive force, a suffocating web of obligations and expectations that bound him to a life that grew increasingly foreign. The vibrant images of Louis and the mysterious companion lingered persistently in his thoughts, each sleepless night intensifying his internal struggle. Questions about his choices, the predetermined path he had been forced down, and the authenticity of the life he led tormented his restless mind. It felt like an unrelenting tug-of-war between societal norms and the undeniable truth of his desires.

As the days unfolded, Harry's frustration deepened, the yearning for authenticity clawing relentlessly at his insides. The stark contrast between the clarity of his memories and the blurred lines of his present reality accentuated the stark disconnect between the life he lived and the life he longed for. The brief presence of Louis had disrupted the delicate equilibrium Harry had painstakingly constructed, awakening a dormant longing for a genuine connection buried within himself.

The echoes of that encounter reverberated in Harry's mind, leaving him with the unsettling feeling of standing at a crossroads. He felt torn between the life he was expected to live and the life he secretly craved, a conflict that played out in the quiet moments when he was left alone with his thoughts.

Returning home after work became an agonising ritual for Harry, a struggle he endured with each passing day. Every conceivable excuse became a lifeline, a desperate attempt to delay his arrival, especially when he knew Camille would already be asleep.

Late nights at the office became a refuge for Harry. He drowned himself in heavy and intricate cases, enduring meetings with his father's associates – engagements he would typically avoid. Now, however, they held a strange allure, captivating enough to make him endure the entire evening.

Fancy clubs and bars transformed into havens where the flowing alcohol provided a temporary escape from the internal turmoil. Niall, blissfully unaware of Harry's complexities, remained a consistently joyful presence, his pure-minded nature shielding him from the intricate struggles that Harry wrestled with.

"So, if I've got this right," Niall said, punctuating his words with loud chews of beans during their breakfast at the old diner, readying themselves for another day of work. "You knew Liam from school?"

Harry nodded, one side of his face concealed behind the coffee cup he raised to his lips. He lowered it with a thud, using the napkin to dab at his mouth. "Yeah, he was a senior there."

As Harry delved into his briefcase, his eyes fixed on the leather seat beside him, a sense of foreboding accompanied Niall's next words. The atmosphere in the diner seemed to thicken, an eerie sensation akin to being caught in his father's web of lies coursing through Harry. His heart skipped a beat as Niall continued, unravelling the tangled web of connections.

"That means you know Louis too."

Hands half-buried in the bag, Harry's eyes shot up to the window.

"But when I introduced you, you shook hands. Like you've never met."

Caught in Niall's observation, Harry needed a quick escape. He took a moment, feigning casual contemplation before responding with a shrug and a nonchalant smile.

"Oh, yeah,’’ He cleared his throat with a fist in front of his mouth. ‘’Well, we might have crossed paths a couple of times, but it's been years. People change, you know?" Harry played it off, hoping the vague explanation would suffice.

"Fair enough, mate. People do change." Unaware of the hidden complexities beneath the surface, Niall resumed his breakfast, seemingly content with the casual clarification.

As Harry exhaled a silent sigh of relief, letting himself lean back into the plush leather, the cup of coffee back in his hands, the diner seemed to hold its breath.

"Oh!" Niall exclaimed, startling Harry with unexpected enthusiasm. "That means that you can come golfing with us. That's how I met them."

Harry's heart skipped a beat as Niall's innocent suggestion carried unexpected weight. The prospect of golf outings with Niall, potentially encountering Liam and Louis in a more relaxed setting, suddenly felt like a trap closing in on him. The details of the upcoming golf outings and the camaraderie shared among the group unfolded against the backdrop of the diner's ambiance.

Trying to maintain his composure, Harry offered a hesitant smile. "Golf, huh? I’m not really good at that." His mind raced, already plotting excuses or ways to gracefully decline without raising suspicion.

Niall, blissfully unaware of the turmoil beneath Harry's composed exterior, beamed with excitement. "Come on, mate! It's a fantastic way to unwind. You'll love it!"

As Niall continued to share his golfing adventures and the camaraderie he enjoyed with Liam and Louis, Harry's internal struggle intensified. The details of the diner, the worn tables, the aroma of coffee, and the clattering of cutlery became an intricate tapestry, weaving the complexities of Harry's emotions into the fabric of the story.

“We should go.’’ He said instead, rising up from his seat, briefcase in hand, leaving the diner and its details

The atmosphere in Harry's office was thick.

Engrossed in legal documents, Harry furrowed his brow, navigating the intricacies of his cases. The usual hum of the city outside was momentarily muted by the closed door, a barrier that offered only temporary respite from the impending storm.

Abruptly, the door swung open with force, crashing against the wall with a resounding thud. Startled, Harry's gaze shot up, meeting the furious eyes of his father, Desmond. Files and newspapers were slammed onto Harry's desk, creating a chaotic display of scattered paperwork.

Caught off guard, Harry scrambled to gather his composure. "What's going on?" he asked, his voice a mix of surprise and concern. His hands reached for the few papers he could grab, his eyes widening as he shifted in his seat, attentively reading each article.

Desmond paced the room, hands gesturing animatedly as he vented his frustration. "Gay Liberation Front nonsense! They're spreading like wildfire, challenging our very way of life. We can't let them run rampant. It's time to put an end to their misguided activism."

Harry, though aware of the emerging rights movement, was unsure why it had become a personal matter for his father. "What do you want me to do?" he inquired cautiously.

Desmond fixed him with a stern look, his voice unyielding. "I want you to handle this, Harry. Find a way to dismantle this organisation, to silence their voices. We can't let them disrupt the natural order of things. It's bad for business, bad for society. Make sure our firm is at the forefront of putting an end to their so-called 'liberation.'"

Harry brought his eyes back to the article, reading carefully as the words "Stonewall riots" and "All power to oppressed people" leapt from the pages. His fingers felt numb, his heart hammering in his chest. Licking his dry lips, he looked back at his father.

"I am not sure we can do that."

Desmond stopped his pacing, his head whipping around to face his son. “What did you say?”

With more firmness in his voice and straightening his shoulders, Harry spoke louder. “These are people fighting for their rights. It's not just a nuisance to be swept under the rug. Times are changing, and we need to adapt to that."

His father's face contorted with a mixture of anger and disappointment. "Adapt? Harry, this isn't about adapting. It's about maintaining order, preserving the values that have built our legacy. I won't have our firm associated with these deviants."

Harry's jaw tightened, his gaze unwavering. "You can't expect me to go against my principles. I can't be a part of suppressing people's rights and freedom."

Desmond glared at him, the room charged with a thick atmosphere. “Your principles?” He spat out the words like they were poison. "I didn't raise you to be a bleeding heart, Harry. I raised you to protect what's ours, to ensure the continuation of our legacy. Don't disappoint me on this.” He nodded toward the files and fixated his son with a dark, menacing glare. "Meet me in my office in an hour. We'll have a meeting to see how we can stop this."

As Desmond stormed out of the office, leaving behind the debris of scattered papers and unresolved tension, Harry was left grappling with the weight of conflicting loyalties. The movement, symbolised by the Gay Liberation Front, represented a call for equality and justice. It was a cause that resonated with the changing tides of societal progress but clashed violently with the traditional values upheld by his family.

Alone in his office, Harry leaned back in his chair, a profound sense of unease settling over him. Despite his competitive nature and love for new challenges, this news made him feel like the universe itself was testing him. He couldn’t fight against this when all he wished for was a space to be himself. Harry couldn’t help but wonder if he had any chance to escape from this new weight on his shoulders.

The meeting room exuded an air of grandeur, with the rich scent of aged mahogany and leather enveloping the space. The polished desk, a symbol of authority, commanded attention as Harry, his father, their associates, and Niall convened for a crucial discussion.

Desmond, an imposing figure in a sharp suit with a cigar between his lips, leaned forward with a steely gaze. "This movement is a nuisance, threatening to disrupt the very fabric of our society. We cannot allow them to persist. Harry, what have you found?"

Harry, seated across from his father, hesitated before responding. "I've been looking into legal avenues, but the right to assembly and freedom of expression are protected rights. We can't simply suppress them without due cause."

Desmond scowled, unimpressed by his son's response. "Enough of this legal nonsense. We need concrete action. Niall, find out who's leading this organisation. We need names, connections, anything that will give us leverage."

Niall, who had been quietly observing, nodded hesitantly. "Alright, Mr. Styles. I'll see what I can dig up."

Desmond's stern gaze turned to Harry. "We can't let them continue their activities. We need to expose their weaknesses, find a way to dismantle this movement from the inside. If they're working against us, we'll make sure they crumble under their own weight."

Harry, torn between his principles and his loyalty to his father, sighed. "There's a thin line between safeguarding our interests and infringing on their rights. We can't afford to play into their hands and become the oppressors."

Desmond's face darkened with frustration. "Harry, this is about morals. Our firm, our legacy, everything we've built is at stake. We can't allow these deviants to challenge the natural order."

Niall, ever the optimist, chimed in. "Maybe there's a way to address their concerns without outright confrontation. We could propose a compromise, find common ground. It might not be easy, but it's worth considering."

Desmond scoffed, dismissing Niall's suggestion. "Compromise is for the weak. We need to act decisively and crush any opposition. Niall, focus on getting those names. Find out who's behind this movement, and we'll figure out how to use that information to our advantage."

Niall nodded, his expression uneasy but compliant. "I'll get on it right away, Mr. Styles."

Harry, defensive and reluctant, spoke up. "There has to be another way. We can't just target individuals because they're fighting for their rights. It's not ethical, and it could backfire."

Desmond's eyes narrowed, sensing his son's reluctance. "What's this sudden concern for ethics, Harry? You've never been one to shy away from doing what's necessary."

"Niall's an innocent party in this. We shouldn't drag him into something that could ruin his reputation."

Desmond, finding Harry's protective stance suspicious, leaned back in his chair. "Why are you so concerned about Niall? Is there something you're not telling me?"

Tension crackled in the room as father and son locked eyes in a silent battle of wills. Harry's jaw clenched, torn between loyalty to his father and his growing unease with the unethical path they were heading down. Suddenly, the air was pierced by the loud ringing of Niall's phone. The interruption was a welcome relief, and Niall seized the opportunity to excuse himself from the escalating confrontation.

"Sorry, gentlemen, I need to take this call outside. Urgent family matter," Niall said, offering a glance at Harry that spoke volumes.

As Niall stepped out, the room was shrouded in an air of tension.

“There is nothing illegal in what they are doing. You can’t call the police on them, and you have no right to try to expose their names or faces in the newspaper.”

Desmond's patience wore thin. "We're in the business of bending the rules when necessary. We need decisive action, not legal mumbo-jumbo."

Harry's jaw tightened, his principles clashing with his father's demands. "It's not about hesitation, father. It's about ethics. You can't trample on people's rights just because you find them inconvenient."

Desmond's eyes narrowed, a storm brewing beneath the surface. "Rights? Harry, you're losing sight of our priorities. Do you even know what they are rioting for? Look at this!" Desmond shouted as he grabbed a newspaper, turning it for Harry to see.

The big bold black letters showed “Gay is good.”

“Is that what you want to allow then? Do you think that this is what society has come to? Harry, this is nonsense, this is blasphemy.’’

Harry, pushing back against his father's authoritative stance, asserted, "We are not in the Middle Ages anymore!"

Desmond, now visibly angered, leaned forward. "You're being naive, Harry. We don't have the luxury of idealism. We need results, and we need them now. You're jeopardising everything we've built," Desmond accused, his voice laced with frustration.

"I won't be a part of something that goes against my beliefs," Harry countered, his tone resolute.

“Your beliefs!?” Desmond pushed from the chair, throwing the newspaper right onto his son's face, slamming a hand on the table. ‘’Are you telling me you believe that this is a good thing? That those fa*ggots taking the streets, painting the walls with those infamies is normal and right!?”

Harry didn’t think twice before ripping the newspapers from his lap, throwing it on the floor and rising from the chair too, letting it collapse on the floor behind him. With two hands on the table, leaning in front of his father, he chose to stand for himself.

The clatter might have alerted Niall, who barged into the room with wide eyes, going straight for Harry, holding him by the elbow.

"Alright, enough! This isn't getting us anywhere. Harry, let's step outside for a moment. A bit of fresh air might help," Niall proposed, trying to diffuse the mounting conflict.

However, Desmond's gaze remained fixed on his son, suspicion lingering in his eyes.

"You're hiding something, Harry. If you're not with me on this, you're against me. We don't have room for dissent."

Unable to answer for fear of saying something that could betray the real reason behind his stubbornness, Harry reluctantly agreed to be led outside, and the two exited the room, leaving behind the remnants of an unresolved power struggle.

Niall led Harry outside through the backdoor, the cool evening air hitting them as the door swung shut. He slammed his cigarette pack onto Harry's chest. "What was that?! Are you out of your mind?"

Harry shook his head, his chest panting. He took a cigarette out of the pack with his teeth, placing it between his lips and welcoming the lighter from Niall's hand. "You don't understand. He is always trying to tell me what to do. Even at work, I'm never doing what I want. It's always him speaking through my mouth."

Niall looked at him, stopping in his movement to really look at him, and his shoulders slouched down. "Mate, I don't know what got you so worked up, but... The old man is the boss here. And there's not much we can do. You know yourself how your name is powerful enough to make people crumble."

"I can't let him do that to those people, Niall." Harry gazed at his friend. "He wants to publish their names and faces; it could be dangerous."

Niall didn't answer, looking at the ground while smoking.

"Do you believe that?" Niall looked up then, incomprehension written on his face. "Do you support that? Do you think we should arrest them and punish them simply because they want a bit of freedom?"

"No, of course, I don't." Niall sighed, "But, Harry. Not many people are going to support them. And if we don't do anything, we'll lose our jobs. And I can't afford that."

Harry bit his lips, blowing the smoke through his nose with an annoyed sigh as he leaned against the brick wall. They stayed in silence, the sound of honking cars and distant voices from the street a faint echo.

"D'you want to have a pint tonight?"

The dim glow of the streetlights casted long shadows as Harry stumbled through the front door, the sharp scent of whiskey clinging to his suit. Camille sat in the living room, her patience wearing thin. The clock on the wall ticked loudly, marking the late hour. Harry fumbled with his tie, the knot hanging loosely around his neck. His dishevelled hair and unsteady gait betrayed the effects of alcohol. The dim light of the hallway revealed a tired and worn expression on his face.

Camille glanced up from her book, frustration etched across her features. "Harry, do you realise what time it is? You're late, again."

Harry's attempt at a casual smile fell flat as he swayed slightly. "Had some work to finish up. You know how it is."

Camille closed her book, her annoyance evident. "Work? We agreed to have dinner together. it's been four days, Harry. Four days you didn't bother to have dinner with me once."

Harry sighed, the alcohol thick in his breath. "I've got a lot on my plate. Cases to handle, meetings to attend. It's not as simple as you think."

She stood up, her eyes narrowing. "It's always the same excuses, Harry. Either you're working or drowning yourself in alcohol. I'm your wife, and I deserve more than a ghost in a suit stumbling through the door every night."

He turned around, busying himself with his leather shoes, wincing secretly and rolling his eyes. "I'm doing this for us, Camille. To provide, to build a future."

Camille's frustration boiled over. "Building a future means being present, Harry. I can't have a future with a man who's never around. You need to decide what's more important."

Harry's shoulders slumped, and he ran a hand through his dishevelled hair. "I'm trying. Can't you see that?"

"Trying isn't enough, Harry. I need you to be here. To be a husband, not just a provider."

As she turned away, heading towards the bedroom, Harry was left standing in the hallway, the weight of his choices sinking in. The scent of alcohol lingered in the air as he faced the stark reality of a strained marriage and the consequences of his continuous absence. With a sigh, he padded through the hallway and slipped into his office, locking the door behind him and intending to spend the night by himself, like usual.

Chapter 6: Sunny afternoon

Chapter Text

The promise of spring carried a chill as Sunday morning unfolded. The streets were abuzz with the usual activity, but in the affluent neighbourhood, the rhythmic beats of rock and roll resounded as Harry cruised through the tranquil streets with too much speed, attracting eyes on his flamboyant car. With the windows down and sunglasses perched on his nose, he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, nodding along to the familiar tunes of Elvis—an all-time guilty pleasure.

Approaching his childhood home, he silenced the music, flicking his cigarette out the window. Parking at the end of the street, he took a moment to compose himself. Pulling down the rearview mirror, he ran his fingers through his unstyled hair, deciding that Sunday deserved a brief respite from hair products. Despite the informal styling, he attempted to rein in his curls, ensuring they appeared somewhat groomed.

Opening the glovebox, he retrieved a bottle of perfume. A swift spritz on his neck aimed to mask any lingering scent of cigarettes, a precaution to prevent his mother from catching wind of his indulgence. Sunday rituals, he mused, as he readied himself to step into the house that held both nostalgia and weight.

Once the car was parked in front of his house, he smiled as he saw his mother open the door and wait for him with a bright smile. He stepped out, pulling the sunglasses on his forehead and marched toward her, dimples out.

“I can’t believe I gave birth to someone as handsome as you.’’ She said as she kissed him on the cheek with too much vigour, making him groan and scrunch his nose.

“It smells so good! Is that banana bread ?’’ He asked with enthusiasm, leading his mom inside with an arm in her back.

But his smile didn’t stay on his face long. Upon entering the living room, he saw Camille, who wore a pale blue dress that matched a ribbon she had tied to her ponytail, a stark contrast to Harry's own tousled locks. And as she sat next to his father, he couldn’t help but notice the disapproval gaze the man was giving him, analysing his linen cream pants and his expensive polo shirt, too decontracted for the occasion probably. And he realised that Camille's carefully chosen attire, however, couldn't conceal the emotional distance that had grown between them. It seemed as though she had seamlessly become a part of his family, spending more time with his mother than him.

"Good morning, son," his father greeted him with an intense glare.

He knew that in the presence of his father, he had no way to escape the picture perfect married couple role. He swallowed a sigh and made his way to Camille, nodding to his father. “Morning.’’ He said in a breath, before leaning down with a hand on her shoulder, pecking her lips just enough.

"Let’s eat then, shall we?" His mom's inviting voice called from behind, and Harry silently thanked her for the distraction.

As they settled in the dining area, Harry found himself seated across from his wife, his parents occupying each end of the table. A small relief washed over him, grateful that he didn't have to endure the awkwardness of sitting next to Camille. Adjusting the napkin on his knee, he reached for the silver fork, only to be jolted in his chair by the commanding tone of his father's voice.

"Let’s pray," Desmond declared, his eyes piercing into his son.

Reluctantly, they all joined hands. Harry's gaze dropped to his napkin as his father recited grace. He felt his mother's fingers tracing small circles on his knuckles, a gesture that forced him to meet her eyes. To his surprise, a knowing glint in her gaze met his, causing a subtle frown to crease his forehead.

As their hands parted, Harry eagerly delved into the delicious spread before him, savouring the taste of his mother's cooking. Camille's chatter about her new friends' gossip and the shortage of her favourite conditioner at the salon faded into the background. He convinced himself that once he finished eating, he could escape and return to solitude.

"It's a bit bland," Desmond's voice echoed, abruptly halting the conversation.

Harry stopped mid-bite, his eyes slowly shifting in his father's direction as he swallowed heavily.

"What is?" His mom asked, her voice shaky.

"I don't know, you tell me," Desmond replied, his gaze dark and menacing as he locked eyes with his wife.

It didn't take long for Harry to realise that his father was drunk. As was often the case, Desmond's anger and resentment would find an outlet, usually directed at either his mother or him.

He could only watch as his mother's gaze dropped, her shoulders slouching. She grabbed her plate, rising from her chair. "I'm sorry, I'll fix it."

"It's too late to be fixed. Leave it be, and eat," Desmond declared.

Anne slowly sat back, visibly gulping and humiliated. Harry had to clench his fork, taking a sip of red wine to help the food settle in his stomach.

"I'll do better tomorrow," she whispered.

"I think it's amazing," Harry interjected, reaching for his mother's hand on the table. "It's the best food I've ever had." His words carried a genuine warmth, a feeble attempt to counterbalance the palpable tension in the room.

The clinking of cutlery against china resonated through the dining room as the brunch continued. However, the delicate atmosphere was shattered once more when Desmond, with a mischievous glint in his eye, decided to steer the conversation in an unexpected and uncomfortable direction.

Clearing his throat, Desmond focused his attention on Camille. "So, when can we expect to be called grandparents?" he asked with a sly smile, his tone suggesting he already knew more than he was letting on.

Not again. Harry thought.

The question hung in the air, casting an uncomfortable pall over the table. Harry's fork paused mid-air, and he exchanged a brief, bewildered glance with Camille. His mother, sensing the tension, diverted her gaze to her plate, and a subtle frown creased her forehead.

Undeterred by the awkward silence, Desmond continued, "You two have been married for quite some time now. Surely, you must be thinking about expanding the family. It's about time, isn't it?"

Caught off guard, Harry attempted to navigate the intrusive line of questioning. "It’s not the time. I’m too busy with work and this new case you gave me."

Desmond leaned back in his chair, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Careers are important, of course, but there's more to life than just work. Family is what truly matters. You know, carrying on the family name, ensuring the legacy continues."

“It’s not-’’

“I mean, surely you’ve been having sex, right?” Desmond spoke loudly, making Harry close his eyes to keep his composure.

“Desmond,” Anne tried to warn, but her voice was ignored, as always.

“Camille is a lovely young woman, and I like to believe that my son is manly enough to take this matter in his hands, if you know what I mean.”

Harry opened his mouth, ready to snap back, but Camille beat him to it. “Harry is very busy with work. Many days he comes home late, and when he does, he goes straight to his office. He is really dedicated, and I love that about him. I think things will happen at the right time.”

But Desmond persisted, delving into more indiscreet territory, his gaze entirely focused on Harry. "Have you been to see a doctor? Checked for any issues, just to be sure? Time flies, my boy, and before you know it, you'll be too old. You wouldn't want to regret not starting a family sooner, would you?"

“I don’t need to see a doctor,” Harry answered through his teeth, his leg bouncing under the table.

“Well, then I don’t understand what the issue is. You are newlyweds; at your age, you should spend all your free time between the sheets.”

“Desmond, I think it’s enough.”

With an exasperated sigh, Desmond threw his knife and fork into his plate. “The food is disgusting anyway.” He stood, his steps faltering as he swayed slightly, giving one last look at Harry. “People talk, Harry, you should know that.”

And Harry, convinced that his father knew nothing, still felt like those words held more meanings than he had intended. He gulped, feeling his heart sink in his stomach once again, releasing the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Later, the clatter of dishes echoed in the kitchen as Harry helped his mother with the post-brunch cleanup. Camille had excused herself to the toilet, leaving a temporary respite for a heart-to-heart conversation with Anne.

Harry, scrubbing a plate with extra vigour, broke the silence. "The food was really good, Mom. Don’t listen to him.”

Anne, drying a wine glass, managed a small, appreciative smile. "Thank you, dear. I do my best, but sometimes it's hard to please him."

The atmosphere grew heavy with the unspoken struggles of the family. Harry, sensing his mother's discomfort, decided to broach the topic gently. "What would make you happy, Mom? I mean, really happy?"

Anne sighed, looking out the kitchen window as if searching for an answer among the autumn leaves. "I've always loved going to Borough Market on Sundays. And today is such a lovely day. But, you know, with your father and everything..."

Harry didn't hesitate. "Let's go, then. We can make it our thing."

A spark of joy flickered in Anne's eyes. "Oh, Harry, that would be wonderful."

As they continued to clean the dishes, the mood lifted, and Anne couldn't help but smile at the prospect of a simple yet cherished outing with her son.

However, Harry's smile faded when Camille reappeared, seemingly eager to join their plans. "What are you two plotting?" she asked with a curious grin.

Anne hesitated, glancing at Harry, who bit his lip before responding. "Well, Mom mentioned she'd like to go to Borough Market and I thought it could be a nice mother-son outing."

Camille's eyes lit up. "That sounds great! Let me get my purse!"

Harry's expression tightened for a moment, but he managed a forced smile. "Sure, the more, the merrier."

Anne, sensing the shift in the dynamics, attempted to keep the peace, placing her hand on his forearm. "It'll be a lovely family day out."

The sun hung high in the sky as Harry, Anne, and Camille navigated the bustling Borough Market, a vibrant tapestry of sights, sounds, and smells. The market, surrounded by centuries-old buildings with timber facades, exuded an old-world charm that seemed timeless.

Stalls adorned with colourful awnings displayed an array of fresh produce, exotic spices, and artisanal goods. Merchants haggled animatedly, their voices blending into a symphony of market banter that filled the air. The market was a kaleidoscope of colours, with hand-painted signs and eclectic storefronts contributing to its unique character.

Children dashed through the cobblestone streets, their laughter echoing as they clutched ice cream cones and bags of candies. Old men and women gathered outside quaint pubs, their weathered faces telling tales of decades past, as they sipped on pints and engaged in spirited games of cards.

Harry waved at familiar faces, some from the neighbourhood, as Anne stopped to chat with old friends. A group of women complimented Harry's appearance, causing Anne to beam with pride.

"Harry, you're looking so handsome today. Your mother must be thrilled to have such a charming son," one of the women remarked.

He smiled appreciatively, a hint of discomfort masked behind his polite demeanour. "Thank you. It's nice to see familiar faces around."

As they strolled further into the market, Camille's enthusiasm bubbled over. She tugged at Harry's arm, her excitement palpable. "Harry, look at these gorgeous jewellery pieces! And these flowers, they're so beautiful. Don't you think so?"

He forced a smile, glancing at his mother, who seemed genuinely happy. Resigned to playing along, Harry nodded. "Yeah, they're lovely."

Camille seized the opportunity to explore the stalls, her hand firmly in Harry's. "Let's see what else they have. I heard there's a new bakery around here, and I'm craving something sweet."

Anne chuckled, observing the dynamics between her son and daughter-in-law. "Oh, go ahead, love. We can meet at the bakery in a few minutes."

Harry exchanged a subtle glance with his mother, acknowledging the unspoken understanding between them. As Camille excitedly led him toward the jewellery and flower stalls, Harry's mind wandered back to the familiar faces, the old-world charm of Borough Market, and the generations that had woven their lives into the fabric of this vibrant community.

He stood there, while Camille was bending over the different rings, sometimes showing him some and asking his opinion on the colour or the shape, but his head was elsewhere. And as she engaged with the merchants, a tiny little woman who claimed that the pieces were all handcrafted, Harry took this opportunity to disentangle himself from her and step on the sidewalk for a smoke.

Recently, he had found a new comfort in smoking, especially when he was next to Camille. He knew that this habit was not a good one to keep, but the meeting with his fathers and old associates at pubs didn’t help his addiction.

As he smoked, his free hand in his pocket and his eyes drifting from people to people, his whole body froze.

Louis stood amidst the colourful stalls, wearing an all-white ensemble that seemed to accentuate the easy confidence with which he carried himself. His decontracted demeanour was a stark contrast to the polished atmosphere of the market, yet it fit seamlessly. A warm smile played on his lips as he engaged in friendly banter with an old lady selling fruits. In his arms, he held a little girl with blonde hair, her laughter ringing through the air.

Harry's heart faltered at the sight. Louis' eyes, a brilliant shade of blue, sparkled with genuine joy, his infectious smile making him all the more captivating. Harry, usually composed, found himself drawn towards him, the magnetic pull impossible to resist. Unconsciously, he started walking, his gaze locked onto Louis.

Louis gently let the little girl down, completely unaware of Harry's approach. With a gentle tone, he spoke to her, "Now, go and find Daisy, won't you? And not too much candy!" He chuckled as the little girl darted off.

What Harry failed to consider at that moment was how unprepared he was for the close encounter with Louis. The dilemma of what to say and how to navigate the unexpected reunion loomed over him as Louis spun around, blissfully unaware of Harry's internal turmoil.

As Louis tucked coins into his pocket, his head inadvertently bumped into Harry's chest, a gasp escaping his lips. "Oh, I'm so–"

Stepping back, a blend of surprise and apology played on Louis' face, swiftly transforming into recognition as their eyes met. His eyes widened, disbelief etched across his features. "Harry?" he uttered, glancing around in apparent disbelief.

Caught off guard, Harry blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "I love bananas."

Louis' reaction was quintessentially him, a wave of heat rushing over Harry, reminiscent of their shared history. A smirk curled on Louis' lips as he raised an eyebrow mockingly, snorting, his chin held high, and his eyes penetrating Harry's with a knowing gaze.

"I see you still know how to talk," he commented, as if checking if it was safe for them to converse.

When he brought his gaze back to Harry, the latter found himself stunned into silence. They stood amidst the vibrant chaos of the market, surrounded by laughter and commerce, a stark contrast to the complexity of their shared history.

“I–” Harry tried, clearing his throat with a fist in front of his mouth, scrunching his nose. “How are you?”

Again, Louis raised an eyebrow, his tone provocative and mocking. “Where is your wife?’’ he replied instead.

Ashamed, Harry looked down, shifting on his feet, hands buried deep in his pockets. The silence lingered, Harry wondering if Louis would leave if he didn't say more or if the conversation would unfold on its own. Louis, however, stood proudly, his unwavering gaze fixed on Harry, digging into his bones.

“Louis, I–’’

“Lou!” The little girl in a purple dress came rushing back, nearly colliding with Louis' legs. She held up a small bag of candies, excitement radiating from her. “I got them! Look!’’

Instantly, Louis's entire demeanour softened as he ruffled the girl's hair with a gentle hand. “It's good, love, but where is your sister?’’

The little girl, blushing and giggling, hid her face in Louis' pants as she peeked at Harry with blue eyes. When Louis turned back to Harry, a trace of softness remained in his gaze as he scanned Harry quickly, taking in all the details. Without another word, the girls tugged him away into the crowd.

Harry and Louis locked eyes deeply, their connection unspoken, and no words were needed as Louis slowly disappeared into the bustling market. The gaze lingered until they could no longer see each other, a multitude of unspoken emotions lingering in the air.

"Who was that?"

Startled, Harry turned to see his mom emerging from behind him, her arm slipping into his, her chin resting on his shoulder. Unable to conceal his true emotions, a faint blush crept up Harry's cheeks, prompting him to cough awkwardly in an attempt to divert attention.

"It's, um," he blinked, his eyes still fixed on the spot where he last saw Louis disappear into the crowd. "We were at Oxford together."

"He looks lovely. Is he single?" Anne inquired, her tone laced with curiosity.

"Mom!" Harry exclaimed with a small laugh. "You can't just go around trying to marry the whole town."

A mischievous smile played on Anne's lips as she pinched Harry's dimple. "So, he is single," she affirmed, clearly pleased with her deduction.

"I know him." Camille's voice echoed from Harry's other shoulder. She mimicked Anne, placing her smaller hands around Harry's forearm. "My friend has a crush on him."

Anne's eyes lit up with enthusiasm. "Oh, that is just perfect," she declared, tugging Harry around. "We should organise something then, my dear." She leaned forward just enough to catch Camille's eye.

Caught in the middle, Harry felt trapped between the two giggling women, his heart sinking once more. He bit at his cheeks, desperately trying to stifle the turmoil within him, as the prospect of orchestrating an encounter between his past and present seemed to unravel before his eyes.

Chapter 7: She

Chapter Text

The evening air bore the fragrance of anticipation as Harry and Niall navigated their way to a quaint, old restaurant nestled in a quiet city corner. Adorned with ivy-covered walls and a weathered sign that creaked in the gentle breeze, the building exuded nostalgia and history. Inside, dim lighting and aged wooden furniture added to the charm, creating an atmosphere that enticed patrons to linger.

Seated in a cosy booth, the worn leather upholstery offering comfort and familiarity, Harry felt a surge of nerves and promptly asked the waitress for a bottle of gin. The menu, a worn and stained compilation of culinary delights, was perused as they contemplated their choices for the evening.

“What are you having?” Harry asked, noticing Niall's eyes darting towards the main door. "Are you waiting for someone?"

Before Niall could answer, a voice cut through. "Hi, sorry I’m late."

Raising his head, Harry’s eyes widened at the sight of Liam taking his coat off and joining them. Wondering why Liam was invited and re-evaluating the purpose of the night, Harry sought his friend's gaze, questioning how much Niall knew. Unbeknownst to Harry, Niall chose not to extend an invitation to Louis, sensing it might not be the right time for a reunion. Deep down, Harry wondered about the omission, daring to hope that Niall knew more than he let on.

As they waited for their food, Harry's eyes wandered to Liam, detecting a hint of nervousness as he played with his fingers under the table. Niall dove into his burger, leaving Harry to observe the dynamic between his two friends.

"So yeah, I became a copper," Liam said, his fogging up.

"A policeman, Liam? Congratulations, I guess?" Harry queried.

Liam chuckled, "Well, life takes unexpected turns, mate. But there's more to catch up on than my career choices. What about you?"

“Lawyer,” Harry replied, taking a sip. “Like it was all planned. That’s how I found this one.” He nodded in Niall’s direction.

“Honestly, I can’t believe we met again, and through Niall. Isn’t it crazy?”

“Yeah,’’ Harry chuckled awkwardly, a thousand questions for Liam stuck in his brain but refusing to come out of his mouth. He wondered about Liam's encounters with Louis, considering how he could be a policeman.

“So, you two are married, huh? What's it like?” Liam asked.

“Oh man, it’s amazing.’’ Niall answered, in awe. ‘’Amelia is the sweetest. She is so patient and understands my weirdness, you know. Never thought I’d find someone like her.”

Nodding with understanding, Liam turned to Harry, leaving him momentarily speechless. He had forgotten, for a second, that he, too, was married. He gulped, looking between Liam and Niall, trying to figure out if it would be a good moment to finally admit everything, or at least, confide in them about his troubles.

“Um,’’ He started, looking down at his ring. “It’s not… I didn’t really want to get married?”

Niall frowned, worried expression etched on his face, but there was no surprise nor shock on Liam’s face. Leaning back in his chair, Harry waited, wondering if one of them would react strongly, but surprisingly, he was met with compassion.

Liam sighed, taking a sip of his beer. "Ever since Oxford, my old man has been pushing for me to settle down. Wants me to marry into a respectable family, you know how it goes."

Harry empathised, nodding in understanding. "Yeah, it’s like they are stuck back in time."

"Well, tonight, we're not discussing responsibilities or family pressures. Let's just enjoy the evening."

The trio laughed, the shared history and camaraderie creating a comfortable cocoon within the worn booth. Niall questioned them about their days at Oxford, causing Liam to start the story-telling of the first time Harry ever got drunk, and how they got chased through the school grounds by the dean. The laughter flowed freely, momentarily lifting the weight of adult responsibilities. But by the mention of Louis’ name, Harry felt his own smile slip away, and he couldn’t help but glance down at his wedding ring once again, a small crease between his brows.

As he looked up, his heart missed a beat when he found Liam already looking at him. They exchanged a knowing glance, Liam’s eyes darting for the ring as well.

“You should come Saturday night,” Liam suddenly said as they were waiting for dessert, making Harry blink in incomprehension. “The Oxford reunion? You didn’t hear about it?”

Millions of thoughts rushed through Harry’s brain, but the only one that was clear and loud kept screaming Louis, Louis, Louis.

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t stay in touch with people from there.’’

‘’Not even Miles?’’ Liam asked from the side, looking straight into Harry’s eyes.

“No one.’’

Liam offered a convinced and satisfied smile, letting Harry know that this information would be repeated and reported to Louis as soon as possible.

And as the night progressed, the unspoken connections between them only deepened, weaving threads of understanding that transcended the passage of time. They savoured the moments, Harry grateful for the refuge the old restaurant provided—an ephemeral escape from his real life.

As Harry entered the house, Camille at his side, he couldn't escape the flicker of surprise in his mother's eyes. Determined to maintain a neutral façade, he helped his wife out of her coat, hanging it on the rack before tending to his own. Despite the lingering tension between them, he intended to shield his parents from the unravelling turmoil within their home.

"Gemma!" he greeted, opening his arms for an embrace. However, her uneasy expression hinted at hidden complications.

"What's happening?" he inquired, his curiosity piqued.

"You're not going to like it," Gemma whispered solemnly.

He followed his sister into the dining room, noticing the table adorned with fresh flowers, fine china, and silverware. The air carried the enticing aroma of his mother's cooking, but an ominous feeling lingered, amplified by the unusual number of plates set.

The sound of giggles reached him first. Turning around, Harry saw Camille adjusting her hair in the antique mirror above the console. Whipping his head towards the kitchen, he beheld his mother, accompanied by a young woman, both carrying plates.

Eleanore had long, wavy brown hair, a tall and slender frame accentuated by a dark dress, and an air of refined elegance. She seemed the embodiment of the well-mannered girl from a respectable family. Her perfume lingered as she passed him, depositing the meal at the centre of the table.

"Harry, darling,” Anne said, placing her hands on Eleanore's shoulders. “I invited Eleanore to join us today. I thought it would be nice for Camille to spend some time with her friend," her eyes twinkling with a hidden agenda.

Harry raised an eyebrow, glancing between Eleanore and his mother.

Eleanore, a vision of sophistication, smiled at him. "Hello, Harry. It's lovely to finally meet you. I've heard so much about you."

Her posh accent sent shivers down his spine, and he glanced towards Camille, who was still preoccupied with her lipstick. Eleanore reached out for a handshake, but Harry excused himself, escaping the tension of the room.

In the hallway, he sighed, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. The doorbell chimed again, and he jumped. With a heavy heart, he reached for the doorknob, praying for a discreet exit.

"Louis?" he breathed, his eyes widening and his heart quickening.

"Oh," Louis responded, equally surprised. "I didn't know you would be here."

"I—"

"Louis! Hi!" Anne interrupted, nearly shoving Harry aside to embrace Louis. She left a kiss on his cheek and ushered him inside without a word for her son. Harry stood there, his mouth agape, watching them disappear into the house.

Feeling like a deer caught in headlights, Harry half-stepped outside. The sight of Louis in his childhood home stirred panic within him. His mind raced, attempting to make sense of the unexpected turn of events. He suddenly felt a wave of panic as he heard his father’s voice, and had to pull on his collar to take a deep breath, wondering how he could survive this brunch.

He entered the room a minute later and had to come to a sudden halt as the first scene that met his eyes was Louis engaged in a handshake with his father.

“It’s an honour to meet you. I've heard a lot about you," Louis said politely.

"The Tomlinson’s heir in person, eh? That’s not something that happens every day. Anne! Did you get that wine we got from France?" Desmond asked, maintaining a firm grip on Louis’ hand as he guided him towards the table.

“I did, I did,” Anne answered, nudging Eleanore towards Louis. “Louis darling, this is Eleanore Calder, the heiress of Calder's hotel firm.”

Harry gulped.

So that was the purpose behind Eleanore's presence. He looked at Gemma, his lips parting, and the crease between his eyebrows deepening almost painfully. However, Gemma avoided his gaze and simply took her seat at the table, staring fixedly at the plate before her.

Purely in shock, Harry watched as Louis took Eleanore’s hand, leaving a kiss on the back and offering her his sweetest smile, his raspy voice adding a touch of charm that made her blush. “A pleasure,” he said.

"Harry, come on then, let’s eat," Anne called, snapping him out of his daze.

Blinking, he slowly made his way to the table, his eyes never leaving Louis. As he sat next to Camille, he observed Louis pulling out a chair for Eleanore. With a practised charm, Louis executed the gesture, leaving Eleanore seemingly impressed as she took her seat gracefully, a subtle blush gracing her cheeks. Louis cast a glance at Harry as he settled down in front of him, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips, as if he were acutely aware of the discomfort he was causing.

The brunch unfolded in an awkward dance of politeness and unspoken tensions. As the family gathered around the lavishly set table, Harry's father, Desmond, took the lead in grilling Louis with an array of questions.

"So, Louis," Desmond began, his tone bearing the weight of curiosity, "How is the family business going? I haven’t seen your father in a while.”

Louis gracefully set down his napkin, a touch of elegance in his every move. His response flowed with the smooth cadence of a man who navigated both worlds effortlessly. “It is going fairly well. Troy is actually in France right now to expand the business.”

Harry observed the subtle change in his father's expression when Louis addressed Troy by his name rather than his title. A brow raised, but Desmond held his tongue for the moment.

Undeterred, Desmond continued his questioning. "What is it that you do for a living then? Being a Tomlinson, I assume you're involved in the family business."

Louis chuckled, his eyes discreetly darting toward Harry and then away. He reached for his wine glass, the rings on his fingers glinting in the soft dining room light. “No, I do not. I am a professor at King's College, actually.”

“A… professor?” Desmond asked, a frown creasing his forehead as he took a large sip of wine. “How did your father allow that to happen?”

Harry clenched his jaw, shifting his gaze between his father and Louis, anxiety brewing beneath the surface. Louis licked his wine-stained lips, his blue eyes meeting Desmond’s gaze unwaveringly. “He didn’t have to. I am a free man, and I do what I please.” He added with a hint of challenge, “Sir.”

"Desmond," Anne began cautiously, "you know, Harry and Louis were together in Oxford."

Harry knew what she meant, but he couldn’t help but freeze with his fork mid air. He instantly looked at Louis, who was also frozen halfway on his bite. They exchanged a look, Louis’ cheeks tanting of a soft orange hue.

Desmond, caught off guard, raised an eyebrow. "Really? I don't remember hearing about that."

Anne nodded subtly, her eyes flickering toward Harry and Louis, "Yes, dear. They met during Harry’s first year.”

Desmond's eyes widened in realisation. "Oh! I do remember now. How come you two are not in touch anymore? Seems odd for such close friends."

Harry's grip on his fork tightened, and he shot a quick glance at Anne, silently pleading with her not to disclose too much. Louis, on the other hand, maintained a calm demeanour, though the intensity of his gaze bore into Harry's.

Harry's eyes met Louis's briefly, the unspoken tension between them palpable. Louis answered, his tone carefully measured, "Life gets busy, Mr. Styles. People change."

"Oh," Eleanore said, delicately covering her mouth as she swallowed her food. "I heard there was an Oxford reunion soon. Are you going?" She inquired, placing her hand on Louis's forearm and elegantly flipping her hair over her shoulder.

Louis's initial reaction was to glance down at her hand, raising a sceptical brow. Reminded of the setting and company, he managed a polite smile. "I am."

"That's wonderful," Camille chimed in, setting her glass down on the table. "Harry dear, you should go together."

Harry looked genuinely surprised at Camille, his mouth half-open. He blinked at Louis, unsure of how to respond. Louis, in turn, opted to wait for his answer, casually leaning back in his chair and swirling his wine with a subtle flick of his wrist, his eyes carrying a hint of provocation.

"I mean," Harry began tentatively, "I guess so."

Louis arched an eyebrow, and a silent, intense exchange unfolded between them. The others around the table remained blissfully unaware.

"That could be a great idea for you two to catch up," Anne suggested, her tone light. "And who knows, maybe some other day you four could go on a date."

“I must say, it's quite surprising to see someone from the Tomlinson family still single. How is it that a young man of your stature hasn't found a match yet?"

Louis, handling the interrogation with grace, offered a charming smile. "Well, Mr. Styles, I suppose I haven't found the right person to settle down with.” His eyes momentarily lingered on Harry, who met his gaze above the rim of his glass. “It's about finding a connection beyond wealth and status, you know?"

Anne, sensing the need for a change in topic, intervened. "Speaking of connections, Eleanore, dear, tell us more about your hotel firm. I'm sure Louis would love to hear about your work."

Eleanore, with her perfectly manicured appearance, smiled politely. "It's a family business, quite successful. We have hotels in various parts of the world."

Louis, recognizing Anne's matchmaking efforts, played along. "That sounds fascinating, Eleanore. I'd love to hear more about it sometime."

Harry, seated uncomfortably next to Camille, struggled to maintain his composure. The sight of Louis, his proximity and radiant beauty, was a constant source of distraction. As Louis spoke, Harry found it difficult to focus on anything else. Camille, unaware of Harry's internal struggle, engaged in small talk with Gemma on the other side.

Desmond, persistent in his inquiries, leaned in, "And what about your plans for the future, Louis? Any aspirations, perhaps settling down and starting a family?"

At that moment, Harry sensed a subtle deflation in Louis. From a small twitch of his eye to the way his carefully crafted smile faltered for a mere second, Harry recognized Louis's discomfort and had an overwhelming urge to reach out. Yet, he remained silent, restrained by the boundaries of their complicated reality.

Nonetheless, Louis responded diplomatically, "I do believe in the importance of family. But for now it is not my priority.”

Anne, seizing an opportunity, glanced between Louis and Eleanore, suggesting, "Maybe the right person is closer than you think."

‘’Exactly,’’ Desmond said, ‘’Eleanore’s father is a good friend of mine. It would be an amazing match.”

“And look at her,’’ Anne told Desmond with excitement. “She’s so pretty.”

Louis cleared his throat, once again attracting Harry’s attention. But this time, when their eyes met, none of them avoided it, and it made Harry’s fingers clench hard on the knife he was holding. ‘’When the right time and the right person come along, I'll embrace it."

Harry’s lips parted, caught in a moment where Louis's words seemed to transcend the casual exchange of conversation. It felt as if Louis spoke directly to him, the weight of those words sinking into the depths of Harry's soul. Lost in the intensity of the moment, he struggled to remember his surroundings, but the familiar cadence of his father's voice yanked him back into reality.

“See Harry. That’s how real men act,” Desmond declared, diverting his attention to Louis. "Those two have been married for a year now, and I’m still waiting for grandchildren. It’s always work and work for him. Poor Camille must be so lonely.”

Harry snapped his head toward his father, a mix of affront and humiliation etched across his features. Camille, too, wore a shocked expression. “Actually, I’m—”

“No need to make excuses for him,” Desmond dismissed her with a wave of his hand, his gaze fixed on Harry, who unfortunately occupied the seat next to him. “He’s always been making excuses. In all honesty, he is just weaker. But it’s okay, I’m still raising him to be a man.”

The room descended into an uncomfortable silence, the weight of Desmond's words echoing in the air. Harry's ears rang, and his heart pounded as his father publicly humiliated him in front of a stranger and, worse, in front of Louis. Harry let his hands slide down onto his lap, his eyes fixed on his plate as he suppressed the urge to retort.

“Since he was a boy, the only thing he did was whining and whining. Never happy. But we gave him everything,” Desmond continued, his tone accusatory. He hiccuped, waving his knife emphatically as he spoke to Louis, pointing at Harry. “Now look at him. He has everything. The car, the house, the job, the wife. And look. Never f*cking happy.”

Desmond, fueled by alcohol, continued his verbal assault on Harry, each word a barb slicing through the already strained atmosphere. As the room grew tense, and the air thickened with discomfort, Harry found himself on the receiving end of his father's drunken tirade.

"You think you're a man? Look at you! Weak and spineless." Desmond's words sliced through the air with sharp disdain. The atmosphere in the room shifted uncomfortably as guests exchanged furtive glances, sensing the escalating tension.

Pushed to the brink, Harry finally snapped, his voice cutting through the room like a knife. “I don’t see where you are better than me.”

The ensuing silence was palpable, causing a shiver to run down Harry's spine. He gulped heavily, the lump in his throat making each breath a struggle.

"Pardon me?" Desmond retorted, his voice dripping with anger.

"You are not," Harry started, his eyes locking onto his father's glossy but menacing gaze. "Better than me."

Desmond, visibly angered, rose from his chair with a swaying motion. The room fell silent, and all eyes turned toward the escalating confrontation. As soon as Desmond raised his hand, Harry, hardened by years of similar encounters, closed his eyes and retracted his head, bracing himself for the inevitable blow. The shuffling sounds around him, the scrape of chairs against the wooden floor, his mother's heels ringing, and muffled voices became a disorienting symphony.

To his surprise, the anticipated slap never came. Slowly opening his eyes, Harry turned his head, and his eyes widened.

Louis was standing behind Desmond, holding his wrist back and preventing him from striking Harry.

"Desmond, that's enough," Anne called, approaching the two.

Desmond, caught off guard, struggled against Louis's hold. "Let go of me! This is none of your business!"

Louis remained silent, maintaining a firm grip on Desmond's wrist and keeping his arm raised. Anne intervened, "Sit down and calm yourself. I knew you had too much wine. Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” She addressed Louis with pleading eyes. “Gemma, take the girls to the living room, would you?”

Shaken and still a bit stunned, Harry looked down at the table, licking his dry lips. Tears of shame gathered in his eyes. He abruptly got up, pushed past his mother, and disappeared into the corridor.

As Anne tended to Desmond, and Gemma led Camille and Eleanore to the living room, locking eyes with Louis as she passed, she subtly jerked her head toward the corridor. Louis watched Desmond cursing and swearing after his wife as she tried to help him, deeming the situation embarrassing. His gaze then shifted toward the door frame where he had last seen Harry's silhouette disappear. With a sigh, he made his way toward the corridor, intent on finding Harry.

Harry stormed out of the chaotic dining room, the unsettling events with his father still fresh in his mind. Louis, seized by an instinctive urge, followed him, navigating the turmoil in the dining room to make his escape. He found Harry outside, struggling to light a cigarette, his entire body trembling with a mixture of anger and nerves.

Louis hesitated, taking a moment to selfishly absorb the sight of Harry. His eyes traced the contours of Harry's silhouette, noting the changes in his posture and attire since their Oxford days. His hair seemed less curly and darker, his jaw more defined, his silhouette exuding a newfound manliness, firm and muscled. Even in distress, everything about Harry seemed delicate yet undeniably manly.

Breaking the silence, Louis took a tentative step forward. Harry stopped but didn't look up, frozen with the lighter in hand and the cigarette between his shaky lips. Louis gently took the lighter from Harry's hand, their fingers brushing, their bodies unnervingly close. He helped Harry with the fire, their eyes never leaving each other—bright blue and forest green, piercing and yearning, even after all this time.

As the smoke began to swirl, Harry flinched and took a step back. His eyes widened as he kept looking away, then back to Louis, unable to tear his gaze from him. "Why are you here?"

Louis took his time to answer, pulling out his own pack of cigarettes and taking one out with his teeth. He used the lighter to ignite it and handed it back to Harry, raising a brow when he didn't take it immediately.

Harry shook his head, his jaw tense. “It’s—You shouldn’t be here.”

“I didn’t know you’d be here. Otherwise, I—”

“You wouldn’t have come?” Harry asked, a hint of anger.

Louis frowned, his eyes searching for Harry. Then, he snorted and rolled his eyes. “Don’t take it out on me. I didn’t force you into that.”

“And no one forced you to pretend you’d even like her.”

Louis took a step forward, narrowing the distance between them. He could sense Harry's vulnerability, and it made his heart ache. “And so what should I have done? Tell your mom to f*ck off? Or tell your dad I was not interested in women? What do you think would have happened then, Harry?”

That made Harry stop in his tracks, lips parting and the hand holding the cigarette slowly falling down. As the tension hung thick in the air, they found themselves in a silent battle of wills, each struggling with their own emotions. The flickering flame of the cigarette Louis handed back to Harry cast a soft glow on their faces, highlighting the intensity in their eyes.

Louis, trying to maintain an air of indifference, took a step back, leaning against the brick wall. He let out a nonchalant puff of smoke, avoiding direct eye contact with Harry. Despite his attempts at composure, there was an underlying vulnerability in the way he held himself, a subtle yearning that betrayed his calm facade.

Harry, on the other hand, was doing his best to resist the pull that Louis had on him. He took a long drag from his cigarette, the nicotine doing little to calm the storm of emotions inside him. His forest-green eyes remained fixed on Louis, an internal battle raging between the desire to stay away and the magnetic force drawing him closer.

“You knew I’d be here.”

“What does it change?" He snorted.

"It's not funny!" Harry exclaimed, almost offended. "It's not a game." He whispered, glancing behind his shoulder.

"The only one playing a game here is you, Harry."

He had to close his eyes, the way Louis was saying his name bringing back so many memories, hushed breaths, and skin on skin. He swallowed a sob, biting harshly at his own lips.

When he opened his eyes again, his breath caught in his throat. The way Louis' bright blue eyes were staring down at him shocked him to his core, tearing down all the pretences he had built since he was back in London.

They stared, silently again, the world seeming to blur around them. Louis looked ethereal, the small subtle line on his jaw and upper lips, the faint lines around his eyes, and his golden skin illuminated by the sun filtering through the window. He had one need, one desire, to reach out for him, to let him hold him, to forget about everything that just happened.

Finally, Louis broke the silence, his tone carefully measured. "You think I wanted to be here? To witness all of that?"

Harry's jaw tightened, his expression hardening. "Why did you come, then?"

Louis met his gaze, a flicker of sincerity breaking through the indifferent exterior. "I didn't know any of this would happen."

Harry scoffed, a bitter edge to his tone. "Convenient."

Louis pushed himself off the wall, taking a deliberate step closer. "Believe it or not, I don't enjoy seeing you like this."

Harry's eyes searched Louis's face, the lines of tension in his forehead easing ever so slightly. He took another drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly. "Why did you come back into my life, Louis?"

Louis tilted his head, a shadow of sadness in his eyes. "I didn't come back. Your mother invited me. I didn't expect any of this."

The sincerity in Louis's words softened something in Harry.

“I didn’t congratulate you for your wedding, I’m sorry.’’ Louis said suddenly, tilting his head on the side. “Wishing you two the best.”

A muscle in Harry’s jaw clenched, ‘’I don’t want your pity.”

“What do you want then?”

Despite the hurt and confusion, there was a part of him that still longed for the connection they once shared. As the seconds ticked by, their eyes remained locked. It was a delicate dance, the push and pull of emotions, the gravity that drew them together, and the walls they desperately clung to.

But the sound of the door startled them both, and at the same time, Anne came out of the house, forcing them to jump apart. Louis busied himself with his coat, cigarette between his teeth, and Harry turned back to face the wall, his heart pounding.

“Louis, my dear, I’m so sorry,” she said, coming at him, a pleading look in her eyes.

“It’s nothing.” Louis chuckled, “I should go. It was lovely of you to invite me.”

Harry didn’t move, nor did he look as he heard the sound of Louis’ shoes on the ground.

“Wait,” Anne said, “This is Eleanore’s number. You shouldn’t let what happened today influence how you see her.”

“Oh,’’ Louis answered, “Thank you.” and then, the door was closing.

With Louis gone, Anne approached Harry with a soft sigh, her eyes reflecting concern. The lines on her face deepened as she studied her son, clearly affected by the recent tension.

"Harry," she began, her voice gentle, "I'm sorry about your father. He had too much to drink, and I never expected—"

Cutting her off, Harry's voice was filled with a mixture of frustration and resentment. "Mom, how could you? How could you try to set Louis up with someone without even knowing him? This isn't how it works. You can't just force two people together like that."

"Harry, sweetheart, I thought it might be a good opportunity. Eleanore is a lovely girl. I just wanted to help.”

Harry ran his hand through his hair, his frustration evident. "Help? This isn't helping, Mom. It's just making things more complicated. You don't understand what it's like for me."

Anne's expression changed, and Harry froze. She looked at him for a long moment, forcing him to look away as he grazed his face with his palms. “I don’t understand. Louis was your classmate. I thought it would be nice if you four could just-’’

"No, Mom. You can't force me into something. And you can't force Louis into it either. What happened today was a disaster."

Anne sighed once more, realising the impact of her actions. "I just want you to be happy, Harry. I thought maybe—"

"Well, this isn't the way to make it happen," Harry snapped, pulling away from her touch. "I need some time to sort things out."

Chapter 8: Reunion

Chapter Text

Harry didn't plan to attend the reunion, at all.

The thought of it had been looming over him like a dark cloud. The prospect of facing familiar faces, each laden with their own tales of success, wealth, and status, made him uneasy. He anticipated sitting at the same table as Nicholas, encountering Miles, whose letters remained unanswered in a forgotten drawer, encountering Liam, and, inevitably, Louis.

As the night had turned to dawn, Harry found himself unable to sleep. Images of Louis, memories of their shared past, haunted him. The mere thought of being in the same space as Louis again filled him with both excitement and trepidation. The scent of Louis's cologne seemed to linger in the air, an olfactory ghost from their past.

Carefully extricating himself from Camille's still-sleeping embrace, Harry slipped out of bed. Casting a final glance at her, he tiptoed out of the room, closing the door behind him. The quiet of the morning wrapped around him as he made his way downstairs.

The shower's warmth enveloped him, and the razor scraped away the stubble. He lingered for a moment, contemplating the events that lay ahead. The steam filled the bathroom as Harry stood lost in thought. Freshly showered, with a cup of coffee in hand, he stepped into the backyard. The morning air was crisp, and the first rays of sunlight painted the world in a soft glow. Harry took a deep drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke mingle with his swirling thoughts.

As he exhaled, he couldn't help but envision a different life. He tried to imagine himself, ten years older, still working as a lawyer, married to Camille, perhaps with children. The thought made his stomach drop, as he couldn’t find his own happiness in it.

He sighed, sitting down on the small wooden chair as he placed his coffee on the table. He sighed, looking up at the sky, begging to God to help, to bring him clarity and strength, to put him back onto the right path. He clenched his cross necklace, closing his eyes as he tried to find reasons, as he tried to create memories, imagining the laughter of a child, the smile of Camille, the pride of his mother.

"Morning," Camille ushered as she walked into the kitchen, a silk robe tied around her, a big smile lighting up her eyes. She caressed Harry's back as she passed him. "What do you want for breakfast today?"

Lost in his papers for work, he mumbled something, his fingers playing on his lips as he frowned down at a complicated sentence. Absently, he answered, "Anything is fine."

Camille hummed a song while busying herself at the stove, the faint smell of fresh eggs and toasted bread wafting around and caressing Harry's nose. He kept on reading, making annotations in a notebook next to him, fully immersed in his work.

"Harry? Hello?" she called, making him jump.

"Hm?"

"I just asked you what time you'll be going tonight."

"Oh," he said as she placed a plate in front of him, forcing him to put the papers down. "I'm not going, actually."

"What? Why?" She sat in front of him, concern etched on her face. “Is everything okay?

As Camille sat across from Harry, she poured herself a cup of coffee, her eyes fixed on him. The morning light streamed through the kitchen window, casting a warm glow on the scene.

Harry hesitated, spearing a piece of toast with his fork. "Yeah, just feeling like working on the case. Thought I'd take it easy tonight."

Camille studied him for a moment, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup. "Are you sure that's the only reason?" she pressed gently.

He nodded, avoiding her gaze. "Yeah, I just need a quiet night."

She sighed, taking a sip of her coffee. "Alright. But you know, it might be good for you to catch up with old friends. Maybe lift your spirits a bit."

Harry nodded, a forced smile on his lips. "Maybe next time."

As they continued to eat, Camille shifted the conversation. "Speaking of old friends, how did you and Louis meet? I've always wondered why you two didn't keep in touch after Oxford."

Harry's fork paused mid-air, his eyes flickering with a mix of surprise and discomfort. "Louis and I? Oh, um, he was a senior. So we actually didn’t have classes together. Just, you know, hung out with a similar group. But we never really got close."

Camille arched an eyebrow, her curiosity evident. "Really? It's just strange to me. You two looked like you knew each other very well, and I never heard you talk about your time at Oxford together."

Harry swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "Well, it was a long time ago, and people drift apart. Nothing special, really."

She nodded, seemingly accepting his explanation, but her eyes lingered on him, searching for something more. "If you say so. It's just interesting, that's all."

Harry tried to hide the discomfort that surged within him, feigning nonchalance. "Yeah, it's a small world, I guess."

“Well, you would be happy to know that Eleanore is pretty much head over heels for him. She plans to ask him out.’’

That made Harry choke on his toast, tapping at his chest with a fist as he reached for his cup of coffee. Camille stared at him, cup of tea half raised to her mouth as she studied his reaction.

“She-’’ He cleared his throat. ‘’I didn’t know she was such a direct person.’’

“She’s older. And she really wants to get married.’’

Harry dropped his head to his plate only to widen his eyes, half wanting to laugh at the thought of Eleanor wanting children for Louis. He shook his head, taking a bite of his eggs.

“I still think you should go, you know. I was planning to have Eleanor and some friends around for a girl’s dinner tonight.’’

“Are you throwing me out ?” He joked, watching her laugh at him.

“I would never. But you can’t spend your days with Niall. It would be nice for you, and maybe you could have fun.’’

“Niall is fun.’’ He said, a bit offended as he finished his plate. He placed his dish into the sink, and as usual, he made his way to the stairs. “I’m going for a run.’’ He called above his shoulders.

While Camille was upstairs meticulously attending to her perfect curls and, in all likelihood, applying nail polish to her toes, Harry remained downstairs in his office, engrossed in the latest articles he had discovered at the library. He had dedicated hours to compiling a file specifically focused on the Stonewall riots, the formation of the Gay Liberation Front, and other activist organisations advocating for gay rights.

Immersed in the material, he found himself impressed by the vigour and courage of these activists, realising that walking the streets alongside them was a feat he himself might never achieve.

As he read through a particularly lengthy article, his expression shifted.

Prohibition on promoting hom*osexuality by teaching or by publishing material. Section 28.

He frowned, straightening in his chair and leaning over the article, completely absorbed in its contents.

Section 28 stipulated that a local authority "shall not intentionally promote hom*osexuality or publish material with the intention of promoting hom*osexuality" or "promote the teaching in any maintained school of the acceptability of hom*osexuality as a pretended family relationship."

Suddenly struck by a revelation, he reached for his desk, pushing aside piles of papers in search of the right one. He grabbed it, wide-eyed, and brought it close to his face.

"As we cannot carry out this revolutionary change alone, and as the abolition of gender roles is also a necessary condition of women’s liberation, we will work to form a strategic alliance with the women’s liberation movement, aiming to develop our ideas and our practice in close interrelation. In order to build this alliance, the brothers in gay liberation will have to be prepared to sacrifice that degree of male chauvinism and male privilege that they still all possess."

He gulped as he read, searching for a name at the end of the manifesto, finding only those three letters: GLF.

A knock on his office door made him jump, sending papers flying onto the ground as he straightened in his chair, feeling caught.

"Honey, I just wanted to know if you needed dinner? The girls are going to be here soon," Camille called from behind the door.

He frowned, quickly glancing down at all the papers scattered on the floor.

As if his blood had only made one turn in his body, he stood up and went to open the door. She startled, stepping back only an inch from him, looking up curiously.

“I’m heading out,” he announced.

She looked surprised, but he didn’t linger. Instead, he passed by her after making sure he locked the door to his office and hastily made his way down the stairs, disappearing into the bedroom.

Harry was stressed.

Standing in front of his closet, his hands on his hips, and his eyes scanning the array of suits.

He let out a sigh, contemplating which suit to wear for the reunion. A navy blue one seemed too formal, while the black one felt too sombre. But the grey suit was a bit plain.

“Black it is.” He sighed.

As he changed into the suit, he heard the doorbell going, followed by the faint laughter of feminine voices. From them, he easily recognised Eleanor’s voice, sending a shiver down his spine.

With the suit chosen, Harry moved to the mirror, doing his best to fix his tie with his trembling hands, relentlessly adjusting his white shirt on his shoulder, or folding and refolding the small white handkerchief in his vest pocket. He then ran his fingers through his hair before deciding to slick it back. He applied a hint of cologne, closing his eyes momentarily to savour the familiar scent.

The mirror reflected his determined gaze as he adjusted his tie one last time, wanting to appear put-together, even though his mind was anything but.

In the traditional black suit that hugged his lean frame, he exuded an effortless blend of sophistication and casual charm. The jacket's lapels were sharp, accentuating the broadness of his shoulders, and the trousers tailored just right to showcase his long legs.

The crisp, white dress shirt underneath the suit jacket provided a clean backdrop, emphasising the subtle sheen of a black silk tie neatly knotted at his throat. The fabric of the suit seemed to mould to his every contour, highlighting the athleticism beneath with every step he took.

Harry's hair, once unruly and wild, now lay meticulously slicked back. The dark locks were tamed and styled, adding a touch of refinement to his overall appearance.

Forest-green eyes, flecked with golden hues, held a mix of determination and vulnerability as he glanced at himself in the mirror one last time.

The transformation was evident – the young man in front of the mirror, ready to face the night, was a far cry from the one who had hesitated in the closet just moments ago.

Before heading downstairs, he approached the bedroom door. With his hand on the doorknob, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to centre himself. The anticipation of spending the night with Louis weighed heavily on him, and he needed to gather his composure before facing whatever lay ahead.

“I can do it, it’s easy. Go, shake hands, talk, laugh, go home.” He muttered to himself, mimicking the gesture of shaking hands and rolling his shoulders. “Easy.” He repeated, before he opened the door.

As Harry descended the stairs, the conversation between Camille and the other girls present hushed into a meaningful silence. The vibrant energy in the room shifted as all eyes turned toward him. Camille's face lit up with admiration, her expressive eyes widening in pride and love.

"Harry, wow," she exclaimed, her voice filled with genuine admiration. "You look absolutely stunning. Girls, doesn't he look amazing?" She turned toward her friends with both of her hands covering her mouth, pride etched on her face.

He stood at the last steps, he quickly scanned the living room. Eleanor was close to the sofa, still in a very fashionable dress, the fabric and jewellery looking as expensive as her purse. Two other women were there, a blonde and a brunette, giggling while they unabashedly looked him up and down, covering their mouths to whisper.

"Thank you," Harry replied, a faint blush touching his cheeks.

Camille guided him toward the hallway, a slight smile playing on her lips. Standing behind him, she helped him into his coat. When she was done, she turned him around, arranged the small handkerchief peeking out of his vest pocket, and raised on her tiptoe to kiss his lips.

“Oops,’’ she giggled as she wiped at the lipstick stain with her thumb. ‘’Here you go.”

"Thanks," he muttered, smiling down at her.

“Have fun. Don’t drive home if you’re drunk, okay?’’

With a gentle push from Camille, he stepped out into the cool night.

In the car, Harry felt the weight of stress pressing down on him.

He regressed to eighteen, as if he were on his way back to University for his most crucial exam or the day he received his admission letter to Harvard. Waves of anxiety pulsed through him, leaving his fingers numb on the wheel and his stomach churning relentlessly. He turned the music louder in the car, closing his eyes for a moment when the bass made his seat vibrate under him.

The venue, a posh restaurant situated in a historic building, now transformed into an elite space for the gathering, was packed from the outside. He knew he was at the right place when all he could see was a crowd of well-dressed men smoking cigars and cigarettes, completely cluttering the sidewalk.

He blew air out of his cheeks and manoeuvred the car right in front of it, stopping as soon as he saw the poor valet trying to hold his place among the already drunken crowd.

As he stepped out, he heard whistles and noises, the men outside all turning to admire the car. He frowned as he saw one of them bending down at the back of the car, his hand following the curve of the sheet metal.

"Well, well, if it isn't Harry Styles!"

As Harry turned around at the booming voice, a wide grin spread across his face, feigning excitement. "Nicholas!" he exclaimed, masking the hint of discomfort beneath his enthusiastic greeting.

The reunion, once an anticipated event, now felt like a stage set for both nostalgia and potential pitfalls.

Clapping Harry on the back with a familiarity that felt forced, Nicholas followed with a firm handshake, Harry making sure to project a confidence that perhaps only he could sense. The crown of thinning hair atop Nicholas's head hinted at the passing years. Flanking Nicholas were David and Oliver, both of whom wore expressions that seemed to oscillate between curiosity and envy as they regarded Harry.

“Look at that!'' Nicholas exclaimed as the valet stepped into Harry's car and drove it away, the sound of the engine roaring behind them. "You little sh*t. Never had taken you for a car lad."

Harry faked a chuckle, rolling his shoulder to make Nicholas' hand fall away from him. He turned to the others, this time with a softer handshake. “David, Oliver," Harry acknowledged, offering nods to each in turn.

In their first year at Oxford, when Harry was still naive and easily influenced by status and wealth, he found himself following and admiring Nicholas. However, it didn't take long for Harry to realise that Nicholas's rudeness, loud demeanour, and self-assured attitude were too much for him to tolerate. Nicholas had a penchant for putting others down to boost his own self-esteem, and he harboured racist and hom*ophobic tendencies, making him a complete twat.

As Harry matured and evolved, excelling in academics and transforming his appearance into one that drew all eyes, Nicholas shifted from openly antagonising him to adopting a façade of false friendship. It manifested in subtle jokes, inappropriate comments, and remarks that were always laced with mockery. Despite this, Harry remained silent, choosing to accept it with a smile.

Now, standing in front of Nicholas, Harry, a confident and accomplished man, knew without a doubt that he had grown beyond the need for Nicholas's approval or acceptance. He had become better than all of them, no longer willing to tolerate the toxicity that once affected him.

"Let's get inside, shall we?" Nicholas asked, and with a perfected smile, Harry followed the three of them.

The pulsating beat of a classic rock anthem reverberated through the ivy-clad walls of the private venue, setting the tone for the student reunion. The inside was adorned with dim lighting and rich mahogany furniture, exuding an air of sophistication and nostalgia. The aroma of aged whiskey mixed with the subtle scent of cologne lingered in the air, creating an atmosphere that felt both familiar and intoxicating.

The chatter of well-dressed, elite men echoed in the space, their tailored suits and silk ties showcasing the epitome of Oxford's finest. Glasses clinked as old friends reunited, catching up on years spent apart. The low hum of conversation, the rhythmic tap of dress shoes on the hardwood floor, and the laughter that punctuated the air created a symphony of memories and connections. He adjusted the lapels of his perfectly tailored suit, the dark fabric accentuating his tall and confident stature as he walked behind his old classmates, towering them all.

Navigating through the sea of suits, Harry scanned the room with an air of nervous anticipation, his forest green eyes searching for a familiar face in the crowd. The ambiance was overwhelming, yet he couldn't shake the confident stride in his step.

After all, he still possessed that undeniable charm that set him apart.

The anticipation of reuniting with old friends, and perhaps an old flame, fueled Harry's nerves. As he moved further into the heart of the reunion, the atmosphere enveloped him in a mix of excitement and uncertainty. The hunt for Louis, like a magnetic force pulling him toward an inevitable encounter that held the promise of both familiarity and the unknown, stopped as soon as Miles led him to a table.

Harry's eyes found Miles as he was already seated. Memories of shared nights and the unsent letters from Harvard echoed in the back of his mind. Miles, as always, maintained a polished appearance with his slicked-back blond locks and well-groomed presence. His blue eyes sparkled, giving away a subtle warmth and familiarity.

A sense of awkwardness settled over Harry as he approached Miles, extending his hand for a handshake. "Miles," he greeted, a small, unforced smile playing on his lips.

The exchange felt genuine, Miles reciprocated the smile, a touch of nostalgia in his eyes as they briefly reconnected amidst the hum of the reunion. “I never thought you could look better than you did.”

Harry nursed a glass of his favourite Bourbon, the amber liquid swirling in the crystal tumbler. His eyes scanned the crowded room, searching for familiar faces amid the sea of suits and ties. His gaze lingered on Nicholas' sister, a figure from the periphery of his past at Oxford, who had joined the grounds a year after him. He recalled Anastasia, too, a girl who had tried to seduce him during one of their nights out.

Miles and Nicholas were engaged in a game of draft on the side, and Harry watched them intently, pondering what might have transpired in Miles' life after Oxford. He wondered if Miles had followed the conventional path of marriage and settling down with a woman, leaving behind the escapades with men. Or perhaps, Miles had remained true to his authentic self.

The ambiance of nostalgia and curiosity was interrupted by a sense of presence settling behind him. Harry frowned and turned, ready to dismiss the intrusion.

However, his expression shifted from annoyance to surprise, then quickly to anger.

Before him stood the man he had seen Louis leaving Niall's wedding with. The man's attire exuded charisma, a well-fitted suit that emphasised the sharp lines of his physique. Short hair framed his face, and bright blue eyes met Harry's gaze with a piercing intensity. Despite being smaller in stature, the man's aura and posture radiated pure confidence, a stark contrast to Harry's initial annoyance.

A square jaw defined the man's features, and as their eyes locked, Harry couldn't help but feel a surge of conflicting emotions. The memories of Louis leaving the wedding with this man flooded his mind, raising questions and stirring a mixture of anger, confusion, and a hint of jealousy.

The man stood still, his piercing gaze fixed on Harry, giving the impression that he already knew him intimately, aware of all his secrets and flaws. His presence seemed purposeful, as though designed to irk Harry.

Taking a measured sip of his Brandy, Harry met the man's unwavering stare. He straightened, using his height as an advantage and casting a look down at the man who remained resolute and silent. A muscle twitched in Harry's jaw, and the air around them crackled with escalating tension.

"Can I help you?" Harry finally broke the silence, his tone laced with a hint of irritation.

"Harry, right ? Harry Styles," The man responded with a hoarse, low voice, his strong Irish accent adding an enigmatic layer to his words. "Didn't think I'd see the day when a Styles himself graced us with his presence."

Harry narrowed his eyes, the comment not going unnoticed. "And you are?"

"Cillian. Murphy." he replied, his voice dripping with subtle amusem*nt. He looked down at his glass, a smirk appearing again on his mouth, accentuating the age line around his lips. When he looked up, it was with more challenge and a much more menacing look. “A friend of Louis.”

Harry's eyebrows furrowed at the mention of Louis. "A friend, huh?" Harry shot back, not buying the claim, his defensive stance only intensifying.

Cillian's eyes held a glint of amusem*nt as he leaned in slightly, invading Harry's personal space. "More than a friend, you might say. Though, judging by the way you were looking at him, I'd say I'm not the only one in the running."

Harry's jaw tensed, his irritation growing. "I don’t know what you are talking about."

Cillian chuckled, a low sound. "Louis was right, you are a coward.”

The cryptic words hung in the air as Cillian took another sip of his drink, The tension between them escalated, both men locked in a silent battle of wills over their shared interest.

Their silent confrontation was interrupted by a subtle shift in the atmosphere.

The entrance area seemed to part like the Red Sea as Louis and Liam made their approach. Louis, a paragon of elegance and confidence, wore a perfectly tailored deep navy blue suit that accentuated his eyes. His face was freshly shaven, and the slight curl at the top of his hair added a playful touch to his overall commanding presence. As Louis moved through the crowd, the low hum of conversations hushed, creating a natural path for him. His deliberate steps and focused gaze sent a clear message: he owned the room.

Amidst this regal entrance, Cillian's hoarse voice cut through the air, diverting attention back to the ongoing confrontation. "Just an advice," he murmured, his eyes flicking toward Louis before settling on the side of Harry's face. "You should go back to your perfect little life. Don't try to play in the adults' league. You stand no chances."

The whispered words carried a low, gravelly murmur, sending a shiver down Harry's spine. Surprised, Harry turned to face Cillian, his lips slightly parted, shock etched on his features at the almost threatening tone.

Cillian, smirking, raised his glass in a mocking cheer before making his way toward Louis. An unease settled within Harry as he watched Cillian approach Louis, the distance between them widening with each step. Louis, radiant and enchanting, caught Harry's eye, leaving him momentarily breathless.

As Cillian whispered something into Louis' ear, Harry's gaze remained locked with Louis'. In that fleeting moment, the unspoken connection between them felt unbroken. However, the cryptic warning from Cillian lingered in Harry's mind.

Yet, Harry's introspection was abruptly cut short as Nicholas flung an arm around his shoulders, steering him toward a long wooden table where others were already seated and immersed in their drinks.

"Well, well, look who decided to join the party. Did I miss anything, or is it the same old tales of Oxford glory?" Nicholas quipped.

"Tomlinson," Nicholas addressed, his tone stern and annoyed. "Wouldn't say I missed you."

"I return the compliment, Grimshaw," Louis replied with a nonchalant smile, pulling a chair at the end of the table. He seated himself at the centre of attention, the 'master' chair, slumping down with an air of ease, flashing Nicholas his brightest smile.

Harry swallowed hard as Louis' eyes met his, the world around him momentarily fading away. In that instant, all thoughts of maintaining a composed facade evaporated.

As the men began to take their places at the table, Harry eagerly claimed the last available chair next to Louis. Seated directly across from Cillian, he met the Irishman's confident and challenging gaze head-on. The stage was set, and the reunion took on a new tone, with unspoken tensions lingering beneath the surface.

The air in the private space buzzed with tension as the reunion dinner unfolded. The long wooden table served as the stage for a subtle power play, with each man vying for dominance.

Nicholas, ever the self-assured one, couldn't resist but flaunt about his job. "You know," he began, a smug grin playing on his lips, "working for the government has its perks. I'm involved in some high-stakes matters, you wouldn't believe."

Louis, sitting at the far end of the table, raised an eyebrow. "Really? I always thought your expertise was limited to organising mediocre parties."

Nicholas shot him a sharp look, but Louis remained unfazed, sipping his drink with an air of nonchalance.

Meanwhile, Miles, on Harry's left, seized the opportunity to reconnect. "Harry, it's been ages since we caught up. I've been working in publishing, you know. Some exciting things are happening there."

Harry nodded, trying to maintain a polite demeanour, though his attention stayed only on Cillian. The staring contest between Cillian on Louis's right and Harry on his left created an undercurrent of tension, their silent exchange speaking volumes. And although Louis was perfectly aware of it, he did nothing to let it show.

Cillian, his gaze unwavering, finally broke the silence. "You know, Styles, not everyone is cut out for the life of glamour and pretence. Some of us thrive in the shadows."

Harry tensed at the veiled remark, his forest green eyes locking onto Cillian's piercing blue ones. Louis observed the exchange with a hint of amusem*nt, drumming his fingers against the table.

Nicholas, sensing an opportunity to provoke Louis, chimed in. "Louis, I heard you didn’t take on the job your old man left you. Or perhaps you weren't cut for it.”

Louis chuckled, the sound dripping with sarcasm. "Well, Grimshaw, not everyone wants to live in the shadows of their papa.”

“Say that to Styles, then.” Nicholas snapped back.

Harry’s eyes snapped to Nicholas, a small twitch of his lips as he gulped down on his glass, Miles quickly poured another one for him.

“How is it then?” Oliver chimed in, leaning on his elbow, looking at Harry. “I heard about the riots.”

“f*cking fa*ggots always trying to make a place for themselves. The only one they deserve is on the sidewalk.”

Suddenly, the sound of a glass slamming on the wood made everyone’s mouths shut, all eyes turning to Louis, who raised dark blue eyes to Nicholas. “You know, I always found it very interesting that you only had those words in your mouth.” He said, his finger following the shape of the rim of his glass. “Ever since Oxford, that was the only thing you cared about. fa*ggots.” He slurred the word, tilting his head. “I think you look pretty much interested in them, don’t you think boys?”

The air around the table fell quiet as Nicholas grew deep red, Liam pinching his lips together not to laugh, Cillian smirking into his glass, and Harry’s wide eyes darting from Nicholas to Louis, swallowing.

Nicholas's face flushed with anger, and he retorted, "You always had a big mouth, Tomlinson. Pride doesn't change who you are."

Louis leaned back in his chair, a smirk playing on his lips. "Ah, Grimshaw, always the defender of ignorance. It's cute how you cling to outdated views like they're a lifeline."

Nicholas shot up from his chair, fists clenched. "You think you're better than everyone, Tomlinson?"

Louis shrugged nonchalantly. "Not everyone, just you. You've always been a coward hiding behind prejudice. It must be exhausting living in that little narrow-minded world of yours."

The tension at the table reached its peak as everyone watched the verbal sparring between Nicholas and Louis. Cillian's smirk widened, and Harry, caught in the middle, glanced nervously between the two, wondering how much more explosive the reunion could get.

“Or perhaps you are so sensitive to the subject because you are one of them,” Nicholas retorted.

All air felt punched out of Harry’s lungs, and his eyes couldn't have grown bigger. He slowly turned his head to look at Louis, not missing that Liam had stopped smiling and that Cillian was shooting daggers at Nicholas from his place.

Studying Louis’ reaction, Harry saw the flicker of fear, only a second, but he saw it in the way Louis’ eyes and fingers twitched. Slowly, Louis raised playful eyes, leaning one elbow on the back of his chair, his glass dangling from his delicate wrist.

‘’I was expecting more depth, Nicholas,’’ he said as he crossed his legs, tilting his head only slightly to the side. ‘’Maybe you should take inspiration from your sister’s throat.’’

It got even more silent for a second before Liam started laughing, forcing the others around to join him. Harry whipped his head to Louis so hard he felt a small crack in his neck, and as Nicholas stood from his chair, sending it flying behind him, and tried to make his way for Louis, only to be stopped by David, Harry finally lost it and let out a honking sound akin to a laugh.

At the sound, Louis’ eyes flickered to him, and slowly, a smile bloomed on his face.

“You think it’s funny?!” Nicholas roared, trying to push past David, determined to reach Louis, anger deforming his face. “You think you are smart just because Daddy is supporting you?! I always knew you were a whor*!”

The comment made both Cillian and Harry stand up from their chairs, and Harry celebrated inside at the fact that he was the closest to Nicholas. With a hand on his chest, Harry pushed him back and raised an eyebrow at him, patting his reddened cheek.

“Come on, Nick,” he called, as if talking to a toddler. “Don’t make a fool of yourself here.” He whispered, a small smirk on his face.

Nicholas stopped fighting against David’s grip, his wide eyes slowly turning to gaze at the rest of the room, shame gracing his features as he realised that all eyes were on him, and that many people might have heard Louis’ comment. With a shove of his elbow, he pushed David and Harry away, grabbed his jacket, and stormed out of the room.

The atmosphere at the reunion shifted after Nicholas's dramatic exit, leaving the air buzzing with residual tension. Oliver, deciding to diffuse the intensity, suggested a game of billiards. The clacking of balls and laughter filled the corner of the room where Harry, Miles, Oliver, and Liam engaged in friendly banter over the green felt.

Meanwhile, on the outskirts, Louis found himself sharing a secluded spot with Cillian. The dim lighting cast an intimate glow around them, but their conversation was far from light. They spoke in hushed tones, exchanging stories. From an outside look, they looked everything like old friends, two mates catching up and drinking. But Harry knew it was more than that.

However, Louis couldn't resist the occasional glance toward the billiards table.

Harry, fully engaged in the game, felt a pull whenever he sensed Louis's eyes on him. A quick glance above Cillian's shoulder confirmed his suspicions. Louis was observing him, their eyes locking in a silent exchange that spoke volumes. Despite the distance, the magnetic connection between them remained palpable.

The billiards game was in full swing, both the clattering of balls and the banter escalating as the players got more into the spirit. However, Nicholas made his way back, seemingly more calm than before. He silently went to lean on the wall, watching them play, a drink in his hand.

Miles, with a sly grin, raised an eyebrow at Harry. "So, lads, what's on the table for our little game?"

Oliver chimed in, "How about a round of shots for the winner? I could use a little liquid courage."

Liam interjected, "Or perhaps something more interesting. Winner gets bragging rights for the rest of the night. And the loser... well, you'll owe the winner a dance."

Harry, sensing an opportunity to up the stakes, glanced toward Louis, who was watching the game from across the room. A mischievous spark lit up Harry's eyes as he responded, "I like the sound of that. But let's make it interesting. Winner gets to choose a dare for the loser."

Miles laughed, "Alright, you're on, Styles."

As the game progressed, the competitive spirit in the room grew. Each player took their turn with calculated precision, the banter flowing freely. In a strategic move, Harry leaned in to take a shot, his eyes never leaving the table. As he lined up his cue, he felt Louis's gaze on him. With a quick smirk, Harry unbuttoned his jacket, pulling it off and handing it to Liam.

"Getting serious, are we, Harry?" Miles teased.

Harry, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, shot back, "Just making sure I'm in top form. Wouldn't want to disappoint the audience, now, would we?"

Louis, still watching, couldn't help but appreciate the display of confidence. The unspoken challenge between them added a layer of intensity to the game.

As the balls scattered across the table and the final shot was made, Harry emerged as the victor. He turned toward Louis, a triumphant grin on his face, "Looks like I get to choose the dare."

With a gleam in his eye, Harry proposed, "I think it's high time Grimshaw here tried his luck on the dance floor. What do you say, Nicholas?"

“I say f*ck you.” Nicholas, conceding with a chuckle, stood up, ready to fulfil his end of the bargain. The room erupted in laughter and cheers as the dynamics of the night continued to unfold.

A few hours later, or perhaps three, the aftermath of revelry unfolded in the pub. Empty bottles littered every table, some men slumbered on leather seats, others belted out school anthems, and a few sought refuge outside, attempting to ease the disorienting spin in their heads.

Miles, with flushed cheeks and tousled hair, approached Louis and greeted him with a knowing smirk, his gaze sparkling with mischief. "Well, well, if it isn't Miles," Louis purred, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

Miles met Louis' gaze head-on, his own expression steely with determination. "I couldn't help but notice you staring." he remarked, his tone carefully neutral. "It's quite the reunion, isn't it?"

Louis arched an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Ah, yes, Harry and I have a long and storied history," he replied, his tone teasing yet tinged with a hint of defiance. "But enough about us. Tell me, Miles, what brings you back?"

Miles bristled at Louis' nonchalant demeanour, his resolve hardening as he squared his shoulders. "I'm here for Harry," he stated boldly, his voice unwavering. "I've always been here for him, even when you weren't."

Louis' smirk widened into a sly grin, his eyes gleaming with amusem*nt. "Oh, Miles, darling, you really are quite transparent," he quipped, his tone dripping with condescension. "But let me assure you, Harry and I have a bond that transcends your petty jealousies."

Miles felt a surge of frustration rise within him, his patience wearing thin. "You may think you have Harry wrapped around your finger, but I know the truth," he shot back, his voice laced with venom. "And mark my words, Louis, he deserves better than the likes of you."

Louis' laughter echoed through the crowded pub like a mischievous melody, his confidence unshakeable in the face of Miles' accusations. "You really are quite amusing," he chuckled, his tone dripping with mockery. "But let me be perfectly clear – Harry and I have a connection that defies explanation. And no amount of your self-righteous indignation will change that."

Miles narrowed his eyes, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. "So why are you not talking to him then?" he retorted sharply, his voice laced with accusation. "Why did you come here with this old pet of yours? Pretending you are not drooling all over him."

Louis' smirk widened into a sly grin, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "My dear, you're so quick to jump to conclusions," he replied, his tone teasing yet tinged with a hint of defiance. "But the truth is, Harry and I have an understanding. We don't need words to communicate – our connection speaks for itself."

Miles scoffed, his scepticism evident in the arch of his eyebrow. "An understanding, huh?" he scoffed, his tone dripping with disbelief. "More like a convenient excuse to avoid facing the truth. You can't fool me, Louis. I see right through your facade."

Louis' laughter rang out once more, a melodic sound that danced through the air like a playful breeze. "Let me assure you, Harry and I are perfectly content with the way things are. And as for my 'old pet,' as you so eloquently put it, he knows exactly where he stands."

Oliver raised his glass in the air. "You can really hold your liquor," he commended Harry with a hiccup.

Liam, swaying slightly, nudged Harry. "You know who can really hold it? Louis." Liam pointed to Louis with his index finger, holding an empty glass.

Harry, liberated by the effects of alcohol, chuckled, "I'm sure I could beat him. Years of meeting with the old man and his puppets."

"OI! Louis!" Oliver's call interrupted the banter. Louis and Cillian paused, their conversation taking a backseat as they turned to face the beckoning voice. With a frown, Louis hesitated for a moment before excusing himself, weaving his way toward Oliver.

"You finally realised that a party was no fun when I was not invited?" Louis joked, positioning himself in front of Harry around the round bar.

"Harry said he could beat you at drinking."

Louis, intrigued, raised an eyebrow in challenge. "Oh," he responded, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "Well, bring it on, Styles." He emphasised the last word, staring directly at Harry, setting the stage for a drinking competition.

Harry, amidst the intoxicating haze of alcohol, grinned at the challenge. He stumbled a bit as he stood, steadying himself with a hand on the bar.

"Alright, Tomlinson, you're on." Harry's eyes met Louis's, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to blur. The banter, the cheers, and the rowdy atmosphere faded away, leaving only the two of them in a silent, charged exchange.

Louis led the way to the centre of the room where a makeshift bar had been set up. Empty glasses, bottles, and a sense of anticipation surrounded them. The crowd, now forming a circle around the two competitors, erupted in cheers and catcalls.

Miles, still standing, clapped Harry on the back. "Good luck, H."

Liam and Oliver, with a lopsided grin, placed in front of each of them six shot glasses filled with whisky. "May the best man win."

Louis, his eyes never leaving Harry's, lifted his glass in a mock toast. "Cheers, darling. May you survive the challenge."

“Okay, ready ? Go!”

The drinking contest commenced, the liquid fire sliding down their throats as the cheers from the onlookers fueled the competition. Shot after shot, the room spun, and the laughter mingled with the clinking of glasses as a circle formed around the two competitors, eagerly awaiting the victor.

Harry, confident and fueled by the competitive spirit, downed his shots with practised ease. Louis, on the other hand, matched him sip for sip, his gaze never leaving Harry's.

Their competitive spirits clashed, and yet, there was an unspoken connection evident in the glances and the unbroken eye contact.

The revelry continued, reaching its peak as the two rivals downed the final shots. The room held its breath, waiting for the outcome. The challenge had blurred the lines between banter and something deeper, leaving both men in a shared moment of understanding.

They slammed the last shot on the table simultaneously, eliciting cheers, claps, and screams from the surrounding crowd. Amidst the uproar, their eyes remained locked, the glossy sheen reflecting shared triumph, and slowly, their smiles fell, bit by bit, from how intense their eye contact felt, a connection that transcended the revelry.

When Liam tapped Louis on the shoulder to offer his congratulations, the spell was momentarily broken. Harry's gaze shifted to the ground, feeling an unexpected emptiness in the air around him, making him gasp for breath. Miles, sensing his friend's need, swiftly handed him a glass of water, which Harry downed in a single, desperate gulp.

Louis's voice, smooth and filled with mirth, reached Harry's ears. "You gave me a run for my money." The words resonated beside him, prompting Harry to sputter water onto his chin. He leaned down, wiping at his wet skin with the back of his hand.

Looking at Louis from such proximity, taking in the dishevelled hair, slightly sweaty complexion, and the dazed, drunken eyes, Harry couldn't help but swallow hard, the water still lingering in his mouth.

“I let you win,” he muttered, his voice unintentionally husky, a hint of vulnerability seeping through the words.

The lingering moment hung in the air like a palpable force, the connection between Harry and Louis too intense to be ignored. Both felt the magnetic pull, an invisible thread urging them to lean in and bridge the remaining distance. The chemistry crackled, the desire to succumb to the pull almost overwhelming. Yet, the awareness of the crowded room and the numerous onlookers kept them tethered to the present. Even as the surrounding sounds blurred, creating a cocoon around them, the reality of the setting held them back.

In that charged silence, Louis hesitated, his eyes reflecting a conflict within. The desire in his gaze was undeniable, but a sudden flicker of something akin to fear or regret crossed his features. Abruptly, he stammered out an excuse, his voice strained, and he withdrew from the magnetic pull.

"I-I should go." Louis stuttered, his eyes momentarily avoiding Harry's gaze. With a subtle yet swift turn, he made his way back to Cillian, leaving a confused and intrigued Harry behind.

The night descended into chaotic disarray as Oliver, unable to handle the liquor, vomited onto the floor. The unpleasant incident served as a catalyst, prompting others to acknowledge that it was time to bring the inebriated revelry to a close.

Harry, immersed in a drunken haze, felt his face grow numb, the sensation tingling and hot. Struggling to light a cigarette, he stumbled toward the exit. Outside, the night air hit him like a slap in the face, momentarily clearing his foggy mind. The sight of Louis and Cillian deep in conversation intrigued him, but his alcohol-induced stupor prevented him from fully grasping the details.

Cillian appeared visibly upset, holding onto Louis' elbow with a tight grip.

Liam and Miles took charge of the situation, attempting to support the intoxicated Oliver, who, despite his drunken state, continued to sing boisterously. The pub's atmosphere had shifted from lively chaos to a scene of disorder, with Harry swaying dangerously as he tried to navigate through the egress.

As Liam ushered a drunken Oliver and Miles into a cab, Harry recollected that he had handed his car keys to the valet earlier. He signalled the valet to approach, retrieved the keys, and tucked them into his trousers pocket, all while holding his jacket on his forearm and allowing his loosened tie to dangle.

Continuing to smoke, Harry turned his entire body towards Louis, observing with a furrowed brow as Cillian persistently tried to hold him close. Louis, affected by the alcohol, swayed with the rhythm, a grimace on his face that deepened Harry's concern.

Liam's voice reached him from behind, breaking the quiet night air. "I shouldn't tell you this," Liam began, "But if you don't do anything, he'll choose him."

Harry turned to face Liam, this time with a knowing expression. "Why are you telling me, then?"

Liam shrugged, raising his hand to hail a cab. "Cause I don't like that guy."

As Liam left, Harry stared down at his car keys, swaying back and forth in a drunken haze. The sound of a car door slamming caught his attention, prompting him to raise his head. A cab drove past him, and through the window, he could see Cillian looking back at him. Harry responded with a smirk, acknowledging the unspoken challenge.

Chapter 9: Don't make me over

Chapter Text

Harry was past the point of coherent decision-making, the alcohol coursing through his veins clouding his judgement.

As he stumbled through the darkened streets, he followed the erratic path of Louis, his senses dulled by the alcohol. The city seemed to twist and blur around him, but his focus remained on the figure ahead – Louis. Each step was a conscious effort, Harry swaying as he navigated the uneven pavement.

In his inebriated mind, a whirlwind of thoughts spun, fueled by desire and a haze of alcohol. He entertained the idea of what he wanted to do once he reached Louis' house – a reckless fantasy guided by intoxication and longing. He imagined confessing everything he had kept inside for so long, baring his soul to Louis. The alcohol fueled his courage, turning fleeting thoughts into a chaotic symphony of desire.

As he followed Louis, Harry's thoughts meandered between the intoxicating allure of being close to him and the anticipation of what might transpire behind the closed door of Louis' home. In his drunken state, the boundaries between fantasy and reality blurred, and the line separating desire from impulsiveness grew thin.

Since that first year at Oxford, Harry had ample time to reflect on Louis and the nature of their relationship. He realised that, in reality, he didn't know much about him. Louis was evasive about his family, and the only thing they seemed to share was an imperceptible physical attraction that bound them together without reprieve. Many nights, he pondered if Louis had ever felt something for him. He replayed in his mind the day Louis left the school grounds, promising to return for Harry when circ*mstances allowed.

But now, Harry was a man, and he couldn't believe in fairytales anymore.

The hallway was dimly lit, shadows playing on the walls as Harry, drunk and determined, followed Louis to his new apartment. He had become adept at navigating the labyrinth of streets, chasing the memory of Louis through the night. As Louis pushed open the door to an apartment complex, Harry waited for a bit and slipped inside.

Closing the door carefully behind him and trying to maintain some semblance of discretion, he trailed behind Louis up the stairs, the slumber in his steps attempting to mask the inebriation that swirled within him. Harry waited on the staircase, watching Louis enter his apartment before he closed his eyes briefly to steady himself. Pushing up the last steps, he stopped in front of the door, the warmth of alcohol coursing through his veins.

He reached for the round golden doorknob and gently pushed the door open. Louis, in his own state of inebriation, likely forgot to lock it.

The apartment emanated a soft glow, revealing Louis stationed in the middle of the room. Their eyes locked, and a fleeting expression of surprise and irritation crossed Louis' face. "Harry? What the hell are you doing here?" he slurred, the scent of alcohol lingering in the air.

All the courage he had mustered seemed to fade away as soon as he saw Louis standing in front of him. Harry's speech was slightly slurred too, his movements unsteady. "I… I don’t know," he mumbled, an earnest but intoxicated look in his eyes.

“You shouldn’t be here.’’

Nevertheless, Louis hurried to the door, casting a cautious glance into the hallway and carefully closing it behind Harry. He turned back, annoyance and fatigue etched on his reddened face.

However, Harry, stubborn and drunk, paid no heed to the warning. Instead, he took a step forward, closing the distance between them. The room seemed to sway as they stood there, caught in a moment of unspoken tension. Louis' eyes pleaded for Harry to leave, but there was an undeniable pull drawing them together.

In the haze of alcohol and desire, Harry whispered, "I just…"

“You really shouldn’t be here.” Louis repeated again, passing next to him and stepping into his living room, a hand behind his neck, nervous.

The room swayed as Harry stood there, caught in the thick tension of the moment. His mind was a foggy mess, words stumbling over each other in his brain. He stared at Louis, mesmerised by the sight of him, the beauty that time hadn't diminished.

Louis, however, was not enchanted. Anger and uncertainty etched lines on his face as he crossed his arms, impatiently tapping his foot. "Harry, what do you want?" His tone was sharper than the glare he shot at him.

"I... I just wanted to see you," Harry stammered, his words failing to convey the complexity of his emotions. He took a step forward, a mixture of regret and desire swirling in his eyes.

Louis scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping him. "See me? You saw me enough already." He turned away, attempting to dismiss the swirling emotions within him.

Harry's frustration grew, fueled by the alcohol coursing through his veins. "Louis, I... I didn't plan for any of this. I didn't plan to come here tonight, and I didn't plan to feel like this." His hands gestured vaguely, struggling to articulate the chaos in his mind.

Louis turned back, his eyes narrowing. "Feel like what, Harry?”

"I don't know!" Harry exclaimed, a mixture of desperation and confusion in his voice. "I don't know what I expected, but seeing you... it just felt … And maybe I'm a mess, and maybe I don't know what I want, but I can't ignore that being near you feels... different."

Louis's anger seemed to intensify, his eyes flashing with a mixture of hurt and resentment. “Different?” Louis approached him, only one step, a finger raised at him. “You're different now. You chose your life.”

Harry's shoulders slumped, the weight of Louis' words hitting him. "I didn’t have a choice.”

Louis stopped pacing, his eyes turning a bit darker. ‘’We always have a choice.”

The room echoed with the bitter exchange, a co*cktail of emotions swirling between them, tangled in the unresolved past and the unpredictable present. The silence felt heavy, but they never stopped staring at each other. Tilting his head to the side with a pained expression on his face, pleading, Harry took another step.

“You said I shouldn’t be here,” Harry said, licking his dry lips, feeling the remnant of alcohol sticking to them. “But you didn’t say you didn’t want me to be here.”

“Don’t—Don’t play with words! You can’t just waltz into people’s houses every time you’re drunk!” Louis retorted, frustration and anger resonating in his voice. Annoyed, he groaned and started to walk away, but Harry grabbed his wrist, just a soft touch, enough to make him shiver.

“Did you think about me? All this time, did you…” He stopped, staring at the back of Louis’ neck, “Did you miss me?’’

Louis stayed turned away, his jaw tensing as he stared at a fixed point in the room. The question hung in the air, heavy with the weight of their shared history.

After a moment that felt like an eternity, Louis finally spoke, his voice low and filled with a mixture of pain and resignation. "I don't think it matters now."

The vulnerability in Louis' response laid bare the wounds of time and separation.

“It does,” Harry said, tightening his hold on his wrist. “I- I can’t forget it.”

Louis tried to free his wrist, though the strength he used was only minimal, but Harry didn’t let go. Wouldn’t even if he wasn’t drunk. The room echoed with the silent struggle, a physical manifestation of the unresolved emotions that lingered between them.

Harry, fueled by the alcohol coursing through his veins, was on the brink of unravelling. "Louis, I don't.. I don’t know what to do." he confessed, his voice strained. "I keep seeing you, feeling you.. It’s making me mad."

Louis' finally freed his wrist, turning around, eyes flickering with a mix of frustration and longing. "Harry, you can't just walk into my life whenever you're confused. You're married, for God's sake !"

"I thought I was doing the right thing," Harry argued, his gestures frantic. "But being here with you, it feels like I'm finally being honest with myself."

Louis scoffed, bitterness in his tone. "And what about Camille? Is she just a casualty in your journey of self-discovery?"

The question hung in the air, a stark reminder of the collateral damage caused by their tangled emotions. Harry ran a hand through his dishevelled hair, a mixture of guilt and frustration on his face. "I didn't plan for any of this, Louis. I feel like I'm falling apart."

"I can't be your experiment.”

The words hung heavily in the room, a painful acknowledgment of the complexities surrounding them. Harry's frustration reached a breaking point. "I'm not using you, Louis. I just need time to figure things out."

"Time?! You have a wife, Harry. A beautiful, perfect and loving wife. What the hell do you want from me ?!’’

In the midst of the heated argument, frustration and alcohol fueled Harry's emotions, his words becoming a chaotic outpour of confusion and jealousy. His gaze locked onto Louis, a mixture of hurt and anger in his eyes.

"You keep throwing my marriage in my face," Harry snapped, his voice strained. "But what about you? Have you been with someone else during these five years?"

“What…” Louis' eyes narrowed. "What does that have to do with anything? You made your choice."

"No, Louis, I made a mistake!" Harry's words were sharp, fueled by a whirlwind of emotions. "You act like you're so above it all, but maybe you found someone else too. Someone to replace me."

Louis scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping him. "Replace you? Do you even hear yourself, Harry? You're married!"

The room seemed to spin as Harry's jealousy took control, his thoughts and words tangled in the haze of alcohol. "What about Cillian then ? Or should I ask about Zayn," he accused, his voice rising.

"Don't you dare..” His lips trembled, his eyes fuelled with anger. “I don’t owe you anything. Do you hear me ? Anything.”

The words and Louis’ tone made Harry recoil, swallowing heavily as he swayed backward. They stayed silent, a few car headlights intermittently illuminating their faces, the only sound, their harsh breathing.

“You said you’d be back.’’ Harry whispered, his eyes fixed on Louis’ shoes.

Louis, unable to contain his frustration, fired back, "You have no right to come into my home, and to blame me for what is happening to you, Harry. You have no right to come here, and ask me about any of this. You have no rights!"

The words hung in the air, a painful acknowledgment of the irreversible changes time had wrought. The intensity of their argument mirrored the tangled web of emotions and unresolved history between them. Each accusation was a dagger, exposing the wounds they had inflicted upon each other over the years.

“I need you to leave.”

When Harry shook his head, Louis sighed in exasperation.

With more annoyance and strength than Harry had expected from a drunk person, Louis attempted to push him toward the entryway. The only source of light in the flat came from a small antique lamp on the console next to the door, casting shadows on the dark green walls and accentuating the turmoil between them. However, Harry resisted, firmly planting his feet on the ground, refusing to be moved.

"Louis, please, just listen to me!" Harry pleaded, his voice desperate. Louis’ fingers tightened on the lapels of his jacket, pulling him toward the door, his other hand reaching for the lock.

"I can't do this, Harry. You need to leave," Louis insisted, his tone strained, as he turned the key.

"I don’t know the name of the feeling I have for you, but it is a special tenderness, something I have never felt until I laid eyes on you! Not for anyone else…"

Louis froze, his hand on the doorknob, the weight of Harry's words hanging in the air. The admission echoed in the dimly lit hallway, a confession of emotions long buried.

"Louis, I can't.. I can’t ignore it anymore. I can't ignore us," Harry continued, his voice raw with emotion.

Louis hesitated, torn between the past and the present, between the pain and the undeniable connection that lingered between them.

"Harry, there is no us." Louis whispered, "You're married, and I can't be a part of this."

"I know, I know," Harry replied, a hint of frustration in his voice. "But Louis, I- Don’t you feel it?"

Louis's fingers lingered on the doorknob, torn between opening the door to let Harry in or shutting it tight to keep him out. The dim light from the antique lamp painted shadows on them.

"Louis, please," Harry's voice wavered, a mix of desperation and intoxication.

Louis exhaled sharply, turning around to finally face him, his eyes now devoid of anger, but still holding so much heartache. The internal struggle evident in his eyes. "Harry, you have a wife. A perfect job, a perfect house. A perfect life!’’

Harry's gaze locked onto Louis's, and he detected a fleeting hesitation in those deep blue eyes.

The magnetic force between them intensified, a pull that defied reason and logic. "Answer me then," Harry demanded, his tone firmer, more confident. He took a purposeful step forward, and Louis instinctively retreated, their dance echoing the unspoken tension in the room. "Do you feel it too?" He pleaded, narrowing the distance despite the resistance.

Louis found himself pressed against the door, his back meeting its cool surface as he shook his head. "It doesn't matter."

Tension thickened, the air heavy with their conflicting emotions. Each word became a battleground, a clash between rationality and desire. Oblivious to the world around him, fueled by alcohol and yearning, Harry remained focused solely on Louis.

"You're scared," Harry accused, frustration edging into his voice. "Scared that if you let me back in, things might not be the same. But I can't live with this distance between us."

Louis clenched his jaw, battling against the vulnerability bubbling beneath the surface. "It's not that simple. We can't just pick up where we left off. We are not teenagers anymore."

Undeterred, Harry closed the gap, breath mingling with Louis's. "Maybe it doesn't have to be the same. Maybe it can be better."

Louis's resolve wavered, his gaze softening, but fear quickly returned to his eyes. "I can't risk it."

The corridor felt increasingly confining, the weight of their unresolved history reaching a breaking point. In the charged silence, Harry's gaze fixated on Louis's lips, an unspoken understanding passing between them.

"Harry…" Louis warned, his voice a barely audible plea, their breaths quickening, anger transforming into a potent undercurrent of desire.

“Tell me to go then,” Timidly, Harry's hands rose, fingertips grazing Louis's knuckles, tracing a path up his jacket, toying with cufflinks, and slipping around his waist until it found a snug place in his palm. Louis bit his lip, turning his head to the side, shaking it in silent protest. “If you don’t feel it anymore, if you don’t want it.”

"Please," Harry murmured against Louis's cheek, the word a fusion of pain and desire. "Please, tell me to go."

Louis turned to face him again, their noses brushing. He looked up through dark lashes, deep blue eyes wide and shining.

"Tell me to go, and I swear I won't..." Harry's breath hitched as their eyes locked, the undeniable physical pull between them erasing the words that had driven them apart. "Please, tell me to go," he begged once more, his focus narrowing on Louis's lips, his hot breath teasing his cupid's bow.

Louis appeared torn, a grimace forming as his eyebrows drew together. He wanted to utter the words, yet found himself physically incapable. Licking his lips, he parted them slightly, letting Harry's breath intertwine with his own. Fingers twitching, he felt Harry's palm squeeze his waist.

When their eyes met again, the emotions that had simmered beneath the surface erupted into a passionate display. Entangled in a magnetic pull, they finally succumbed to the longing that had haunted them both for years.

As their lips met, it wasn't a gentle reunion; it was a clash of fervent emotions, a tempest that mirrored the storm within their hearts. The initial touch, hesitant and tentative, ignited a wildfire of sensations. The taste of alcohol lingered on their tongues, adding a bitter-sweet note to the intoxicating brew of desire and heartache.

Harry's hands gripped Louis' perfectly ironed shirt under his jacket, pulling him against him as if wanting to bring him closer, tighter. At the same moment, Louis’ hands flew to his hair, messing with his curls even more, grabbing, pulling and scrapping. The taste of him was familiar yet new, a rediscovery of a passion that time had failed to extinguish. Little moans and heavy breathing sounds filled the once silent corridor, while their tongues danced to the rhythm of their beating hearts.

The body remembers everything the mind wants to forget, Harry thought in his mind, a quote from the book Louis had forgotten on the library seat years ago, that he had kept with him after all this time.

With an urgency born out of years of pent-up desire, Louis's hands abandoned the tangled locks of Harry's hair, trailing down his cheeks and neck. Swiftly, they slipped under his jacket, fingers working with a feverish determination to discard the barrier that separated them. The jacket was cast aside, abandoned on the cold floor, as Louis moved with an intensity fueled by the urgency of the moment, fingers going for Harry’s tie.

Simultaneously, Harry, a hand still around Louis’ waist, seized the doorknob with a single-minded purpose. The metallic click resonated through the corridor, a sound that seemed to echo the synchronisation of their breaths, sealing them in a world where only their desires held sway.

Louis tore Harry’s tie away from his neck. Harry, stumbling forward, instinctively pressed Louis's body against the wall. The antique lamp overhead flickered and dimmed as their bodies collided, the sudden impact disrupting the delicate dance of light in the room. Louis's moan harmonised with the fading light.

Harry clung to Louis, his hands traversing the contours of his body with a desperate longing. Fingers traced curves, gripped thighs, and, in a surge of fervour, he lifted Louis onto the furniture. Their mouths, momentarily torn apart, were replaced with ragged breaths as Harry hastened to undo the golden buttons adorning Louis's shirt.

Breathing heavily, Louis's mouth found its place on Harry's neck, licking and kissing at the salty skin, breathing in his perfume. The fabric of his expensive suit fell victim to Harry's urgency, the sound of tearing blending with their shared symphony of desire. Harry forcibly opened Louis's shirt, prompting a moan from him. Louis brought a hand on Harry’s curls again, the grip on the back of his neck possessive, forcing his head to turn only for him to lick at his lips and kiss him again. Harry yielded, his body moulding against Louis's, a muted moan escaping him into the shared warmth of their kiss.

With an assertive insistence, Louis pressed up against Harry's body, his back arching as their chests melded together. Stepping down from the furniture, he guided Harry backward into the living room. Swollen lips, glossy eyes, and dishevelled hair, they stared at each other as they tore away their white shirts, buttons scattering, one of them finding refuge beneath the velvet sofa.

Harry found himself intoxicated by a wholly different sensation. The warmth in his belly, fueled by both alcohol and desire, created a heady mix of sensations. As Louis brought his lips to Harry's chest, kissing it with an open mouth, he left glistening traces of saliva along the trail. Slowly descending to his knees, Louis ignited a flame of longing and want that seemed to transcend the physical realm.

Harry could only watch in captivated silence, his lips slightly parted, as Louis began to remove his belt, smoothly sliding it out of the trousers. With skilled fingers, Louis undid the button and leisurely lowered the zipper, maintaining unwavering eye contact with Harry.

A strangled moan escaped Harry's lips when Louis nuzzled into his underwear. In response, his fingers twitched, and his hand shot out to clasp onto his own mouth, his eyes briefly darting toward the door. However, Louis' fingers at the waistband of the fabric drew his gaze downward.

“Those walls are pretty thick,’’ Louis said to him right before biting his lips as he started to pull down the last piece of clothing from his body. His eyes finally left Harry to look at his co*ck, his lower lips bouncing out of his teeth as he parted his lips, watching it curl onto Harry’s belly. “Which means you and I can be as loud as we want."

And then, his mouth was on him.

The vision was so intense that Harry forgot how to breathe or even moan, barely able to stare at the way Louis' neck and head moved in between his legs, his lips wrapped around him, wet and warm tongue caressing his hard co*ck. Louis pulled away to merely kiss the head, raising his eyes at him again as he drew the foreskin back and pressed on the slit with his thumb. When Harry groaned, he smiled, sticking his tongue out to display the mixture of precome and spit on the tip of his tongue before bringing him back into his mouth.

“Oh god,’’ Harry moaned loudly, his head falling backward between his shoulder blades and his hand leaving Louis’ shoulder to tangle in his hair. “Oh, f*cking-” He brought his head right back to look as Louis took him deep in his throat, his stomach clenching. “God.”

With all the gentleness he could muster in his current state, which was not much, he drew Louis away by his hair, seeing his co*ck slip out of his mouth, glistening with saliva, Louis' mouth and eyes glossy and swollen. With one hand on Louis' neck and the other still in his hair, he bent down and drove his tongue into his mouth, forcing Louis to stand up as well.

Walking backward, Louis kissed him with all his might, their bodies crushed together. Their passion refused to be contained, their lips locked, a symphony of shared breaths and whispered moans echoing through the room. Despite the obstacles in their way, neither of them showed any intention of breaking the kiss. The journey to the bedroom was a dance of desire, an intricate choreography of tangled limbs and shared longing. They bumped into walls, sending framed pictures askew, and stumbled over the edge of a rug and over their discarded shoes.

As they finally reached the bedroom door, lips still locked and bodies intertwined, Harry fumbled for the doorknob, determined to continue their heated exchange within the confines of the room. The door swung open, and they tumbled into the bedroom, lost in the intoxicating blend of alcohol, desire, and the rekindled flame of their connection.

The air in the room felt electric as Harry's hands explored Louis' body with urgency, finally daring to reach out for his trousers and let them fall onto the ground, pushing Louis against the bed. When they parted to breath, chest heaving roughly, they stared at each other for a beat, a flicker of insecurities traversing their eyes.

Louis’ eyes suddenly drifted to Harry’s chest, the soft glow of a bedside lamp illuminated their forms, casting a warm hue over them. With deliberate and tender movements, Louis' hand reached out to Harry's chest, fingers tracing the contours of well-defined muscles, rediscovering his body, memorising it. Louis' fingers found their way to the silver cross necklace that hung around Harry's neck. His touch lingered on the pendant, feeling the weight of the symbol between his fingertips. Slowly, deliberately, he unclasped the necklace, his eyes locked with Harry's as he held the cross in his hand.

A flicker of realisation passed through Harry's eyes, a subtle widening as Louis tossed the cross aside. It landed somewhere on the side, the small thud a tangible representation of Harry’s constraints.

Louis then shifted his attention to Harry's wrist, delicately raising it as he pressed a soft kiss to the palm. His lips moved to the pad of each finger, a slow and deliberate exploration. As Louis reached the fourth finger, he paused, his gaze never leaving Harry's. Harry swallowed as he eyed his wedding ring, focusing on Louis’ face again.

"Don’t you ever wear that in my presence," Louis uttered, his voice a mixture of desire and sadness, the words hanging heavy in the air. "Do you understand?"

Harry's chest rose and fell with each uneven breath as he slowly nodded, rendered momentarily speechless by the intensity of the moment.

Louis maintained an unwavering gaze, a silent exchange between them, before he took Harry’s ring finger into his mouth. The room was filled with a charged silence, broken only by the soft, wet sounds of Louis sucking on the finger. Harry's lips parted, a silent moan escaping as his eyes fixated on Louis' mouth, where his finger danced in the heat.

When Louis eventually released the digit, he took the wedding ring between his lips, and with a deliberate motion, he spat it out onto the ground. The metallic clink as the ring hit the surface.

As Louis looked back at Harry, a surge of emotion swept through him. In an impulsive burst, Harry threw his entire body onto Louis, the fury of their desire engulfed them once more, their minds succumbing to the magnetic pull they could no longer resist.

With force, blinded by lust, Harry spun Louis around and pushed him on the bed, watching with hunger as Louis fell on the mattress, his skin even more golden under the orange light. He traced all his curves, from his spine to his ass and thighs, licking his lips.

“I want to taste you so badly.” He said, his voice sounding foreign to his own ear, relishing in the moan it provoked in Louis’ throat.

He lowered himself on the bed, crawling on all four above him, his lips attaching themselves to Louis’ shoulders, kissing, licking and biting. He felt fearless and defenceless at the same time, in control but at Louis’ mercy. He shuddered everytime a new sound would come out of Louis’, trying to make them go louder, higher, raspier.

As he reached the bottom of his spine, his hot breath hovering and soaking the skin here, he hesitated an instant. But the shift on Louis’ knees on the mattress, exposing himself to his mouth caused his brain to shut down entirely. He grazed the backs of Louis' thighs with two of his hands before impulsively bringing his tongue to his pink hole.

“Jesus, Harry…” Louis moaned, dropping his head on his forearms, fingers grasping the sheets.

The new sensation of licking Louis open, and hearing all those beautiful sounds caused by himself and himself only, made Harry feel powerful. He licked him like a starved man, closing his eyes, humming and moaning, probably even louder than Louis himself.

“Ha- f*ck!” Louis whimpered, his back arching obscenely, his head rising from the mattress, thrown back with pleasure. “f*ck me, now.. Harry,’’ He moaned again, trying to reach behind him to push Harry’s head away, thighs shaking.

Harry felt like a new person as he raised his knees again, his chin and nose glistening. He spat on his hand, pulling at his own co*ck once or twice before reaching for Louis and putting one forearm around his waist to lift him up onto his hands and knees. Harry held Louis firmly, his hot back against his chest, and slowly pushed in, both of them groaning.

Louis reached behind them and gripped Harry's ass with one hand, pushing his body backward and Harry forward, forcing him within, deep.

“Oh f*ck.” Harry moaned, loudly, his forehead falling on Louis’ shoulder, biting at the skin here, the pleasure so intense.

They were both shaking, burning skin covered in a thin layer of shining sweat clinking together. Harry grabbed Louis' hand on his arse and brought it down on the mattress next to his head, intertwining their fingers together, pressing them there.

As soon as Harry started moving, the room was engulfed into warmth and skin on skin sounds, their shadows dancing on the walls. Like their whole relationship, they didn’t go slow, nor did they attempt to be tender, Harry’s hips, fast and sharp, while Louis was rolling under him, f*cking himself back, groans and moans mixing in the air, making it hard to know which one of them was the loudest.

Never seeming to be close enough, wanting to crawl into Louis’ skin to feel him, Harry dragged his hand all over Louis’ chest, muscles shifting as he pulled him up, Louis pushing against the mattress to rise on his knees, his back pressed to Harry’s sweaty chest.

The shift of position seemed perfect, Louis’ gasping as his hand flew to Harry’s wrist against his chest. “Yes,’’ He whimpered, moving against Harry, his head thrown on his shoulder. “f*ck, yes.”

Harry was a whimpering, growling mess, his mouth plastered against Louis’ ear, keeping readjusting his hand on Louis’ chest as he kept slipping down from the sweat.

“f*ck, baby,’’ Harry moaned as he bite at Louis’ ear, their movement becoming frantic, writhing together fast and roughly.

One thrust of Harry sent Louis on all four again, his hands shooting out to grab at the wooden headboard, craning his head to the side to watch, biting his lips as Harry stared down at him, grabbing at his hips, leaning down to wrap his own hand around Louis’ one on the wooden piece.

As his org*sm approached, Louis' breaths came out more and more rugged, losing himself into the pleasure as he screamed, “Harry, yes, yes, god! I-’’

His voice got lost into a gasp, his body starting to twitch and shake, clenching around Harry’s co*ck and taking him deeper. The arch of Louis back, pushing back against Harry’s hips, pulled them both to the edge. Harry came with a shot of Louis’ name, his legs and arms shaking, while Louis came with a whimper, immediately going limp.

“Jesus..’’ Harry muttered, doing his best to hold Louis against him as he moved them on the clean side of the bed.

Louis slowly rolled onto his back, Harry still caging him with his body. Their eyes met once again, the dark, blown-out intensity still lingering. Louis whimpered with each breath, occasionally twitching, while Harry's trembling arms supported him above.

An overwhelming surge of emotions flooded Harry, and tears welled up in his eyes. The pleasure and restraint, the raw vulnerability of the moment, brought him to the brink of tears. Rising a trembling hand, Louis gently grazed Harry's cheeks and pulled him down for a tender, slow kiss. Their breath remained out of control, their skin still burning from the fire they had ignited.

When they parted, Harry laid himself with his head on Louis’ chest, holding him close. Tender fingers played with Harry's hair, comforting and securing him in a moment of shared vulnerability. As Harry sobbed, he muttered an apology.

Louis stayed silent for a moment, still catching his breath. His fingers continued their soothing motions through Harry's sweaty hair, scraping at his scalp. After a beat of silence, Louis turned his head, prompting Harry to look up. With his other hand, Louis wiped away Harry's tears, his thumb grazing Harry's lower lip.

"Everything with someone else will never compare to just something with you," Louis whispered, his gaze penetrating Harry.

As the words escaped Louis' lips, a profound truth settled over Harry, leaving him momentarily breathless. That single sentence hung in the air, sinking deep into Harry's soul. At that moment, everything became clear.

It was as if the universe had whispered a promise, and Harry's realisation hit him like a tidal wave. He had Louis back in his life, and nothing – no obstacle, no hardship – could force him to let go again. The days yet to come might be the hardest, filled with challenges and uncertainties, but the certainty of having Louis by his side made it all worthwhile.

The intensity of the emotions in that shared space was palpable. Harry tightened his hold on Louis, his heart swelling with a mix of gratitude, love, and a newfound determination. The connection between them was undeniable, and it felt like a force greater than themselves had brought them back together.

With Louis holding him close, Harry took a deep breath, savouring the warmth and comfort of the moment. The tears that had welled in his eyes now reflected not just the pain of the past but the promise of a future filled with the person he couldn't bear to lose again.

Chapter 10: Afternoon tea

Chapter Text

Louis groaned softly as the morning sunlight invaded his peaceful slumber, an unwelcome intrusion that prompted a futile attempt to shield his eyes from the brightness. He sighed, the sound a mixture of comfort and protest, attempting to nuzzle further into the pillow to reclaim the fleeting moments of sleep.

Shifting slightly, Louis became aware of a cold emptiness on the other side of the bed. Opening his eyes, his heart sank in his chest as the realisation hit him. The sheets were cool where Harry had been just hours ago. Panic and déjà vu gripped him as he quickly raised himself on his elbow, glancing behind to find the bed vacant.

Dread settled in, and he reluctantly chose to get up, wincing at the lingering ache in his lower back—a reminder of the passion shared the night before. He walked out of the room, cursing under his breath, only to find the remnants of their evening scattered on the floor gone. The ties, the shoes, and the clothes were nowhere to be seen.

"You're f*cking kidding me," Louis muttered, anger and hurt bubbling beneath the surface. He fought back the tears that threatened to spill, refusing to let them betray his vulnerability.

The faint clinking noise emanating from the kitchen caught his attention, drawing him further into the apartment. As he opened the door, relief and devastation clashed within him.

Harry turned at the sound, his dishevelled appearance softening Louis' anger momentarily. He wore the wrinkled dress shirt from the night before, open on his bare chest. His suit pants hung low on his hips, the unbuttoned fly revealing a trail of black hair. A smile played on his lips, but his eyes raked down Louis' naked form, a soft blush colouring his ears.

The mixed emotions within Louis intensified as he faced the reality of the morning after. He swallowed hard, trying to find his voice amidst the turmoil. "Harry," he began, the word caught in the unresolved tension lingering between them.

Without giving Harry a chance to react or speak, Louis closed the distance between them. He reached out, cupping Harry's cheeks with both hands, and with a decisive pull, he brought Harry down while rising on his tiptoes. Arching his back, Louis claimed Harry's lips in a passionate kiss, immediately engaging in a fervent exchange. He tilted Harry's head to the side, plunging his tongue into his mouth.

Caught by surprise, Harry's hand instinctively rose, the spatula still in his grasp, as he followed Louis' lead without a second thought. A low moan escaped him, his eyes rolling closed as he surrendered to the kiss, letting himself be consumed, breathless, and utterly captivated.

As Louis pulled away, a thin strand of saliva lingered between their lips, accentuating the pink hue of Louis' mouth. Harry took a moment to open his eyes, his lips still tingling, as he licked and bit at them, catching his breath. When he finally looked up, a shy smile played on his lips, his voice soft.

"What was that for?" he asked, his gaze locked with Louis', not moving from his hold.

Louis searched Harry's eyes, his own sparkling with emotion. He released a small breath, his thumb tracing gentle circles on Harry's ear. "I need you," he confessed, placing a tender kiss on Harry's plump lips, his touch warm and reassuring. "Now."

"But..." Harry's groan was a mix of pleasure and concern, his voice trailing off as Louis peppered kisses along his neck, the sensations sending shivers down his spine. "The eggs?" he managed to interject, his concern for the forgotten food evident in his voice.

However, Louis had no intention of heeding Harry's concerns; it was never part of his plan to begin with.

He trailed his hand down on Harry’s warm chest, and let his hand disappear into his trousers, fingers slowly encircling Harry’s co*ck, smiling up at him when he found no underwear. He started moving his hand slowly, biting at Harry’s chin.

Harry’s free hand slammed down the counter, gripping it tightly, hissing between his teeth as he let out yet another moan, his head tilting back. And when Louis fell down on his knees in front of him, taking the trousers with him, Harry threw the spatula in the sink and reached out his hand to turn off the stove.

Louis lifted Harry's co*ck with one hand in order to get access to his balls, taking one in his mouth, sucking and licking haphazardly as his thumb swirled around his slit, causing Harry's skin to shudder thousands of times. Blue, swallowed by completely dilated pupils, stared at Harry, warm and moist tongue leaving new trails of spit as he licked his way up his co*ck, taking him entirely into his mouth.

“Christ, I-’’ Harry said, licking his dry lips and forcing his eyes open, though his eyelids seemed heavy, his chest heaving and clenching here and there. “Lo- Ah!’’ He moaned, louder this time, his free hand disappearing in Louis’ messy hair, fingers tightening a bit in the strands when Louis took him as deep as possible.

As an answer, Louis moaned around him, sliding his hands to hold Harry's thighs, spreading his knees wider and tilting his head back somewhat more. The angle made it easy for Harry to slip further, and as Louis pressed on his thighs, secretly beaconing Harry deeper, Harry couldn't contain his voice.

“I’m- Louis, f*ck, f*ck,’’ Torn between wanting to keep Louis close and push him away, Harry stared down at him like a mad man, revealing in the way he could push Louis’ head exactly as he wanted, and Louis would simply follow. He started moving his hips, pushing Louis’ head a bit closer to his groin, keeping him there, his mouth opening in silent moans, his brows creasing.

Only Harry's strained breath and the sloppy wet sound from between his legs could be heard in the kitchen. Louis never closed his eyes, and tears streamed down his cheeks and disappeared in his neck. He marvelled, enjoying the way Harry's cheeks turned red whenever he got worked up like this, and the way his name sounded when Harry moaned. He loved knowing that he was the only one who could make Harry feel this way.

Pulling away completely and wrapping his hand around his now spit slick co*ck, Louis gasped a breath, licking his swollen lips. “Come,’’ He whispered, his voice raspier than usual, “Come on darling,”

He moaned when Harry’s body started to shake, pulling out his tongue, mouth open, welcoming Harry’s on his tongue, cheekbones and chin. Harshly, Harry’s tilted back as he came with loud groans and moans, gripping Louis’ hair in his fist.

“God,’’ Harry grunted, his body swaying so badly he had to rest himself against the sink, his whole body still shaking from pleasure.

Louis stayed on his knees for a moment, whipping his mouth delicately with the tip of his fingers, still feeling the warmth of the cum on his face. He swallowed, clearing his throat as he got on his feet, gripping the counter as well. “I need a shower.” He chuckled, “You okay ?’’

Harry couldn’t look away from his own release on Louis’ face, feeling himself growing hard once again and wincing with it. He dumbly nodded, following Louis’ naked form as it disappeared toward the bathroom. Only the sound of the water jolted him from his stupor, and with a delayed reaction, he left the kitchen to join his lover.

After indulging in a leisurely shower that seemed to stretch longer than expected, they finally found themselves nestled on the sofa, enveloped in the comforting warmth of Louis' apartment.

As morning sunlight poured through the sheer curtains, illuminating the cosy space, Louis reclined comfortably, his legs draped over Harry's thighs. Harry sat close, his fingers tracing delicate patterns on Louis' ankle while they enjoyed a breakfast spread laid out on the coffee table before them.

"So, tell me about Harvard," Louis prompted, a warm smile playing on his lips as he watched Harry's eyes light up with excitement.

"It was incredible, Lou," Harry exclaimed, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. "The campus, the people, the classes... Everything was so different from home. I felt like I was discovering a whole new world."

Louis listened intently, captivated by Harry's tales of adventure and discovery. He couldn't help but feel a surge of pride knowing that Harry had pursued his dreams so boldly.

"And guess what?" Harry interjected suddenly, his eyes widening with excitement. "I went to the Gay Pride! I was there."

Louis felt a swell of emotion at Harry's words, his heart swelling with pride for his brave, unapologetic friend. "That's amazing, Harry," he murmured, his voice filled with admiration. "I wish I could have been there with you."

"I thought about you all day that day," Harry confessed, his gaze locking with Louis's, a silent plea for understanding.

Without hesitation, Louis leaned across the table, closing the distance between them in a tender, lingering kiss. As they pulled away, Louis felt a surge of gratitude for the man sitting before him, his heart overflowing with affection.

"Your turn, Lou," Harry prompted, his eyes soft with curiosity. "What happened after Oxford? Tell me everything."

Louis took a deep breath, “First of all, you have to know that my relation with my family is not.. It’s not perfect.”

“Is your relationship with your fa-”

“He’d rather see me dead than let me be who I am.’’ Louis said right away. "I remember one night," he began, his voice trembling slightly with emotion, "my father found out about...about me. He was furious, shouting and cursing, his face twisted with rage. I tried to reason with him, to make him understand, but he wouldn't listen."

Harry listened intently, his heart breaking with each word that fell from Louis's lips.

"And then..." Louis's voice trailed off, his gaze dropping to the table as he relived the painful memory. "And then he...he lashed out at me."

Harry's breath caught in his throat, a surge of anger and sorrow rising within him. "Louis..." he murmured, reaching out to grasp Louis's hand in a gesture of solidarity.

Louis squeezed his hand tightly, drawing strength from his touch. "It was...it was bad, Harry," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "We...we fought, physically. I fought back, I had to.” He sighed and rolled his neck on his shoulders, like he wanted to physically get rid of those memories. “The only reason he let me stay in the house was for my sisters. My mother.. Passed, a long time ago. I was the one taking care of them. And for Oxford, I simply threatened him to tell the whole f*cking world his son was a fa*ggot. He cared so much about our name, about the sales at the company, that he just let me.’’

"After Oxford, my dad wanted me to take over the family firm," Louis began, his voice tinged with bitterness. "But I couldn't do it, Harry. It wasn't me. When I came back, the first he asked me was if I was still taking it … from behind. He would keep using violence to make me go to those dinners, and parties. He kept trying to push me with women. And one night, one of his friends touched me, in front of everyone… I knew I couldn't continue living like that, in fear of who I am. So I walked away, Harry. I walked away from my family's wealth and privilege, from everything I had ever known. And I never looked back. I gave up the house my dad had given me," Louis admitted, his voice catching in his throat. "But I don't regret it for a second. This flat, it's mine. I bought it with my own money."

Harry felt a surge of admiration and pride swell within him as he looked at Louis, his heart overflowing with love for the brave and resilient man sitting across from him.

"And now, I'm teaching at the university as you know," Louis continued, a hint of pride creeping into his voice. "I'm teaching literature, Harry. Can you believe it?"

Harry's eyes shone with admiration as he listened to Louis speak, his heart swelling with love for the man who had always inspired him with his passion and determination.

“Lou, I’m-’’ Harry swallowed the lump in his throat. ‘’I didn’t know. If only I-’’

Louis smiled, his heart soaring at Harry's words. “It’s okay, love.’’

"Did Niall really propose during sex?" Louis inquired, a playful glint dancing in his eyes as he reached for a slice of toast, offering it to Harry with a teasing smile.

Harry accepted the toast with a grateful nod, taking a bite before responding with a smirk. "He couldn't wait any longer," he replied, his gaze lingering on Louis as he savoured the flavours. "You know what I mean."

Louis rolled his eyes playfully. "Your jokes are still the worst, you know that?" he teased, though his laughter betrayed his amusem*nt.

Harry shrugged nonchalantly, a small smirk playing on his lips. "I made you laugh," he pointed out, earning a gentle nudge from Louis' foot in response.

Louis nudged Harry playfully with his foot, a mischievous smile dancing on his lips. "You're just lucky I find your stories entertaining," he teased, reaching for a strawberry and holding it out for Harry to taste.

"I'm lucky for a lot of things," Harry admitted softly, his eyes meeting Louis' with genuine fondness, reaffirming the bond that seemed to grow stronger with each passing moment.

As they shared a smile, the atmosphere around them softened, but Louis' expression shifted slightly, the weight of their situation settling over him like a heavy blanket. He shifted on the sofa, withdrawing his legs from Harry's thighs, his gaze drifting to the breakfast spread before them. With a sigh, Harry set his tea aside, sensing the shift in Louis' mood.

“How about your wedding then?’’

Swallowing around the lump forming in his throat, Harry decided at this right instant, that if he could have Louis by his side, he should at least have this part of his life as honest as possible. "I didn't even want to date her," He began, his voice tinged with bitterness. "But my parents kept pushing us together, telling me it was for the best, that she was the right choice for me."

Louis's brow furrowed in concern as he watched Harry's expression darken with the memories. "And the proposal?" he prompted gently.

"It was all planned," Harry replied, "I didn't have a say in any of it. They set everything up, made it seem like it was my idea. I felt trapped, suffocated."

"And the wedding..." Louis prompted softly, knowing it must have been a painful memory for Harry.

Harry's voice wavered as he recalled the ceremony. "I felt like I was drowning," he admitted, his eyes clouded with emotion. "Walking down the aisle, saying vows I didn't mean... It was like I was living someone else's life."

Louis's heart ached for Harry as he spoke, his own anger simmering beneath the surface at the injustice of it all.

"And after..."

Harry's jaw clenched as he recounted the moment he made love to Camille for the first time. "I tried to push thoughts of you out of my mind," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "But it was impossible. All I could think about was you, Louis."

Louis's breath caught in his throat at Harry's admission, his own emotions swirling inside him as he struggled to find the right words to offer his comfort and solace. But in that moment, all he could do was hold onto Harry's hand tighter, silently promising to be there for him through it all.

"What do you plan to do then?" Louis asked, his voice tinged with a mix of resignation and longing.

Harry's heart sank at the seriousness in Louis' tone, his own gaze meeting Louis' with a mixture of determination and uncertainty.

"I don't know, Louis," He admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I want to be with you, but..."

Louis interrupted, a hint of desperation in his voice. "But what, Harry?”

Harry hesitated, struggling to find the right words to express the turmoil raging inside him. "I want to be free," he confessed, his voice laced with emotion. "But right now, it's too risky."

Louis' shoulders slumped, his heart heavy with disappointment. "So, what? We hide?" he asked, his voice tinged with bitterness.

Harry reached out, gently taking Louis' hand in his own. "I don't want to hurt you, Louis," he said softly, his eyes pleading for understanding. "But I need more time to figure things out, to find a way to be with you without putting you at risk."

Louis nodded, his gaze dropping to their intertwined hands. "I understand," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry's heart ached at the sadness in Louis' voice, his fingers tightening around Louis' hand in a silent gesture of comfort. “Do you.. Can you share me?’’

Silence hung heavy in the air as Louis contemplated Harry's question, his expression distant as if lost in thought. When he finally raised his gaze to meet Harry's, his blue eyes reflected a storm of conflicting emotions. “Can you?’’

Without a moment's hesitation, Harry answered firmly, “No.”

Louis's lips formed a thin line, his eyes searching Harry's face for any sign of uncertainty. "I didn't think so,"

Harry swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling heavily between them. "Louis, I..." He trailed off, struggling to find the right words to convey his feelings.

Louis shook his head gently, a sad smile playing at the corners of his lips. "It's alright, Harry. I knew what this was from the start,"

“You have to know, I… I don’t love her.”

As Harry's words hung in the air, Louis felt a rush of conflicting emotions swirl within him. Relief, hope, and a twinge of uncertainty battled for dominance as he processed the weight of Harry's confession. Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words and unspoken fears. Louis searched Harry's eyes, seeking the truth behind his words, the sincerity in his gaze.

But before Louis could respond, before he could find the words to express the tumult of emotions raging within him, he found himself reaching for another piece of toast. With gentle fingers, he brought it to Harry's lips, offering it to him in a silent gesture of comfort and reassurance.

Harry's eyes softened as he accepted the toast, his gaze locking with Louis's in a moment of shared understanding. There was no need for words, no need for explanations. In that moment, as they sat together, sharing breakfast and sharing their hearts, Louis knew that Harry's actions spoke louder than any words ever could.

With each bite of toast, with each shared glance and shared smile, Louis felt the walls around his heart begin to crumble. In Harry's presence, in the warmth of his touch and the sincerity of his gaze, Louis found solace and strength.

As Harry hurriedly dressed, his mind racing with thoughts of the impending return to his own life, he couldn't shake the sinking feeling in his chest. Each article of clothing felt like a weight, pulling him further from the warmth and comfort of Louis' presence.

Frustration gnawed at him when he discovered one of his cufflinks was missing. With a sigh, he searched around the room, his gaze meeting Louis' as they both scanned the floor beneath the sofa. Relief flooded him when Louis triumphantly held up the elusive cufflink, a shared laugh easing the tension that lingered in the room.

Louis' fingers deftly tied Harry's tie, his touch gentle and comforting, the closeness of their bodies a bittersweet reminder of the intimacy they shared. As Louis helped adjust his hair, Harry's heart swelled with affection and longing, his fingers itching to reach out and pull Louis close.

But reality came crashing back when Harry's fingers closed around his wedding ring, the cold metal a stark reminder of the life waiting for him beyond Louis' door. With a heavy sigh, he slid the ring onto his finger, his gaze dropping to the floor as guilt and regret washed over him.

Louis' silence spoke volumes as he opened the door, his eyes avoiding Harry's as he stepped aside to let him pass. Harry hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing down on him as he struggled to find the words to convey the ache in his heart.

"I'll see you soon?" Harry's voice was barely a whisper, his eyes pleading with Louis to understand the depth of his feelings.

Louis nodded, his own anguish hidden behind a mask of composure.

But before either of them could speak further, the sound of footsteps on the stairs interrupted their moment, jolting them back to reality. With a final, lingering look, Harry stepped out of Louis' flat, the door closing behind him with a finality that echoed in the empty hallway. As he made his way down the stairs, the weight of his decision settled heavily on his shoulders, leaving him with a hollow ache that only grew with each step away from Louis.

Harry closed the door behind him with exaggerated care, as though hoping to silence the guilt that threatened to spill out with each creak of the hinges. His heart raced as he tiptoed through the familiar corridors of his home, every step a reminder of the secret he carried. His breath caught in his throat when he found Camille in the kitchen, her presence a stark contrast to the chaotic emotions swirling within him. She stood poised and immaculate, her dress a stark reminder of the life he was bound to, the life he couldn't escape.

"Harry, where were you?" Her voice cut through the silence, sharp and accusatory. "We are going to miss church! Go up and change!"

He winced at her tone, feeling the weight of her disappointment settle on his shoulders like a suffocating blanket.

She walked over him, patting her hands down the apron she had around her waist. ''You got drunk didn't you?''

He blinked at her, stammering. ''I- Uh. Yeah."

Camille's eyes narrowed, her scrutiny making him feel exposed, vulnerable. For a moment, he feared she could see right through him, and could sense the secrets he harboured. But then her shoulders slumped, and she sighed, her demeanour softening as she approached him.

“We’ll talk in the car, go and change!” She pushed him toward the stairs.

As they drove through the quiet streets, the soft hum of the car engine mingled with the gentle rustle of Camille's dress against the leather seats. Harry sat beside her, dressed in his Sunday best, a crisp suit and tie that felt suffocating in the heat.

Camille glanced over at him, her eyes bright with curiosity. "So, tell me all about the reunion," she said, her tone light. "Did you at least have fun? Where did you stay?"

"I stayed with Miles," he blurted out, his voice sounding foreign and distant to his own ears.

"Miles? Do I know him?" Camille's brow furrowed in confusion.

"He was my dorm mate at Oxford. Saw him at the reunion. Liam was there too. Remember Liam? From Niall's wedding?" Harry babbled, his words tumbling out in a desperate attempt to divert her attention away from the truth.

“Oh!’’ She clapped her hands. “The policeman?’’

"Yeah, the policeman," Harry affirmed, forcing a smile. "Lovely bloke."

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to ignore the beads of sweat forming on his brow. "Oh, it was fine, you know. Caught up with some old friends, reminisced about the good old days," he replied vaguely, his voice strained.

Camille raised an eyebrow, her gaze lingering on him. "Anyone interesting there?" she pressed, a hint of mischief in her tone.

Harry's gaze flickered, his mind racing as he carefully omitted certain details. "Well, there was Miles, like I said. We had a good chat. And Nicholas Grimshaw, don’t know if you heard about him. But one of them got too drunk and vomited everywhere so we just went home earlier.” he replied, trying to sound casual.

"Miles and Nicholas?" Camille mused, nodding thoughtfully. "And anyone else?"

Harry hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest as he internally wrestled with how to respond. "Um, not really," he replied evasively, his eyes darting away from Camille's probing gaze.

She raised an eyebrow, a hint of suspicion creeping into her expression. "What about Louis?" she asked, her voice tinged with curiosity.

Harry's breath caught in his throat at the mention of Louis's name, his mind scrambling to maintain composure. "Louis?" he repeated, feigning innocence. "Oh, uh, he was there, yeah," he stammered, his eyes darting nervously to the road ahead.

Camille studied him for a moment, her gaze lingering on his face before she nodded slowly. "Alright then," she said, her tone measured. "As long as you had a good time."

Harry forced a smile, relief flooding through him as he realised he'd managed to deflect her questions. "Yeah, it was alright," he replied, grateful for the reprieve.

As Harry sat in the wooden pew of the grand church, surrounded by the familiar hymns and murmured prayers, he couldn't shake the feeling of suffocation that seemed to grip his chest. The air felt heavy with the weight of his secrets, the weight of his guilt, as he recited the prayers by rote, his mind wandering far from the solemn words.

The atmosphere inside the church was solemn, the scent of incense mingling with the musty smell of old wood and polished brass. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, casting colourful patterns on the stone floor and illuminating the faces of the devout congregation.

Harry's heart pounded in his chest as he tried to focus on the rituals unfolding around him, the rhythmic rise and fall of the priest's voice, the solemn intonations of the prayers. But his mind kept drifting back to the events of the previous night, the touch of Louis's lips on his skin, the warmth of his embrace.

As the congregation rose to recite the Lord's Prayer, Harry felt a lump form in his throat, the words catching on his tongue as he struggled to utter them. "Our Father, who art in heaven," he whispered, his voice barely audible above the chorus of voices around him.

The weight of his sins pressed down on him like a leaden cloak, the weight of his betrayal, his infidelity. He felt like a fraud, a hypocrite, sitting there in the house of God, pretending to be something he was not.

“However, I consider my life worth nothing to me. My only aim is to finish the race and complete the task given to me by the Lord Jesus. The task of testifying to the good news of God’s grace.“

The priest's words echoed in the cavern of the church, the call to testify to the good news of God's grace. But Harry found himself unable to speak, his hands clenched tightly on his thighs as Camille's voice on his left and his father's on his right seemed to grow louder, drowning out the priest's words.

As the mass drew to a close, the congregation began to file out of the church, exchanging polite nods and murmured greetings. Harry's father stood at the entrance, shaking hands with parishioners as they passed, a proud smile on his face.

But as Harry approached, his father's smile faltered, his eyes narrowing as he noticed something amiss. "Where's your cross, son?" he asked, his voice low and stern.

Harry's heart skipped a beat, his stomach lurching with dread. He glanced down at his bare neck, the absence of the familiar silver pendant sending a shiver down his spine. "I, uh, must have forgotten to put it on this morning," he mumbled, his voice barely audible.

His father's gaze bore into him, eyes going straight for his ring finger as if to check if the ring was at least on him, searching and scrutinising. Harry could feel the weight of his disappointment like a physical blow, the knowledge of his deception hanging between them like a heavy fog.

A throat cleared behind them, drawing their attention. Turning, they saw Cillian standing there, immaculately dressed in a perfect old-style suit, his gaze fixed straight on Harry.

Harry's father's face lit up with recognition and pleasure at the sight of Cillian. "Ah, Cillian Murphy!" he exclaimed, extending a hand. "A pleasure to see you here."

Cillian took Anne's hand first, pressing a kiss to it with practised charm, then turned to Camille, who blushed under his gaze as he repeated the gesture. "Mrs. Styles, a pleasure," he said smoothly.

Harry's jaw clenched as he watched the interaction, his discomfort palpable. When Cillian finally acknowledged him, his greeting was curt. "Harry," he nodded, his tone cool and distant.

"Cillian," Harry responded through gritted teeth, meeting Cillian's intense gaze with a steely one of his own.

His father, oblivious to the tension between them, beamed. "Marvellous! You two know each other?" he asked, clueless.

Cillian's lips curved into a faint smile, but his eyes never wavered from Harry's. "Yes, indeed," he replied cryptically. "From a mutual friend."

The insinuation in Cillian's words sent a shiver down Harry's spine, leaving him wondering about Cillian's motives. Despite the discomfort, Harry refused to falter under Cillian's piercing gaze and kept staring back, his jaw set in determination.

Camille, unaware of the tension between the two men, interjected with curiosity. "What is it that you do?" she asked, her interest piqued.

Cillian's response was cryptic yet intriguing. "I do many things," he replied, his voice low and husky, his Irish accent adding a hint of mystery.

Harry's father, eager to keep the conversation flowing, chimed in. "The Murphy family is renowned for their expertise in buying and training the most competent horses in all the kingdom. How was yesterday's race?" he inquired.

"I won," A faint smirk tugged at the corners of Cillian's lips as he responded, his gaze shifting from Desmond to Camille before landing on Harry once more. "As always."

Harry's jaw clenched, his muscles tensing as he resisted the urge to physically remove Cillian from in front of him. Though he had yet to fully understand the nature of Cillian's relationship with Louis, one thing was certain: he couldn't stand the man. Cillian raised a brow at Harry, his expression challenging and overconfident, before nodding once more. "I'll see you soon," he remarked before bidding farewell to Harry's family.

As Cillian walked away, Anne's voice broke the tension. "What a charming man," she commented, her tone cheerful and oblivious to the unease that lingered in the air. Harry forced a tight smile in response, though his mind was elsewhere, consumed by thoughts of Cillian and the secrets he seemed to carry.

“And a competent once.” Desmond added, turning to look at his son.

Harry couldn't shake the feeling of guilt that gnawed at his insides. He had betrayed his vows, betrayed his wife, betrayed his faith. And as he watched his father's stoic facade crumble before his eyes, he knew that the consequences of his actions would be far-reaching and profound.

Chapter 11: Act like you know

Chapter Text

The opulent dining room exuded an air of aristocratic elegance, the soft glow of candlelight casting dancing shadows on the walls as Harry found himself ensconced in a seat beside his father, the weight of expectation heavy upon his shoulders. Around them, the clink of fine china and the murmur of polite conversation filled the air, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within Harry's heart.

His father, resplendent in his tailored suit, held court at the head of the table, regaling their guests with tales of Harry's accomplishments. Harry forced a tight smile, nodding along with practised ease as he listened to the litany of praises and accolades. But beneath the facade of civility, Harry felt suffocated by the pressure to conform to the heteronormative standards that his family held dear. His marriage to Camille loomed large in the room, a constant reminder of the obligations that weighed heavily upon him.

Nicholas sat right next to Harry, his demeanour oozing with arrogance and entitlement. Harry knew that Nicholas’ father, an influential parliamentarian, was a close ally of his father, their families intertwined by politics and privilege.

And as the evening progressed and the wine flowed freely, the conversation inevitably turned to the proliferation of queer rights manifestations that had been sweeping across the city. The topic sparked a heated debate among the guests, their voices rising in indignation and outrage.

Nicholas’ father, his tone laced with disdain, was the first to voice his opinion. "It's absolutely absurd," he scoffed, his lips curled in contempt. "These queers have no respect for decency or tradition. They think they can flaunt their perversions in public and expect us to tolerate it."

Harry felt a knot form in the pit of his stomach as he listened to the old man's hateful rhetoric. He wanted nothing more than to speak out, to defend the rights of his fellow queer individuals. But he knew that doing so would only draw attention to himself, exposing him to the scrutiny and judgement of those around him. Instead, he forced himself to remain silent, to nod along with forced enthusiasm as they continued his tirade. But beneath the surface, a fierce defiance burned within him, a determination to fight for justice and equality, no matter the cost.

Across the table, another guest chimed in, his voice dripping with contempt. "It's a disgrace, I tell you," he sneered. "These queers should be ashamed of themselves, parading their deviancy in public for all to see. They're nothing more than a blight on society."

“That’s why we need the death penalty !” Another one added, a burst of laughter following.

Nicholas, sensing Harry's discomfort, leaned in close, his voice low and conspiratorial. "What's the matter, Styles?" he taunted, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "Feeling a bit queasy at the thought of all those queers running amok in the streets?"

Harry gritted his teeth, his hands clenched into fists beneath the table. But he forced himself to maintain his composure, to play the role of the dutiful son, the obedient heir to his father's legacy.

"Well, gentlemen," his father interrupted, a steely glint in his eye, "you may be interested to know that our firm has been working tirelessly to counteract the influence of these activists."

Harry's heart sank as he realised what was coming next. He knew that his father expected him to play his part in the charade, to toe the line and uphold the family's conservative values at all costs.

"So, Harry," one of his father's old friends asked, turning to him with a knowing smile, "tell us about your work at the firm. I hear you've been quite involved in the efforts to combat these...queer rights movements."

Harry felt a wave of nausea wash over him as all eyes turned to him expectantly. He knew that he had no choice but to comply, to play the role of the dutiful son and loyal employee.

"Yes, well," Harry began, his voice strained with forced enthusiasm, "we've been working diligently to protect the moral fabric of our society from the threat posed by these...activists."

Across the table, Nicholas shot him a knowing glance, a sly smirk playing on his lips. "Isn't that right, Styles?" he taunted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Tell us, how does it feel to be on the front lines of the fight against degeneracy?"

Hiding his wine glass, he mentally damned Nicholas and wished nothing more for Louis, or even Zayn, to be here, in order to make him go quiet in an instant. With a deep breath to steady his nerves, he forced himself to respond, his voice carefully modulated to match the tone of the conversation.

"Oh, you know," Harry replied, his tone casual but tinged with bitterness, "it's certainly...challenging, to say the least. These activists seem to have no regard for the values and traditions that have upheld society for generations."

His words felt like daggers in his own heart as he spoke, each syllable a betrayal of his true beliefs and convictions. But he knew that he had to maintain the facade, to play the role expected of him by his father and his father's esteemed guests.

"They're nothing more than troublemakers," Harry continued, his voice growing more animated as he forced himself to echo the sentiments of the group, "intent on tearing down everything that we hold dear. It's disgraceful, really."

The bitterness of his own words tasted bitter on his tongue, a harsh reminder of the compromises he was forced to make in order to navigate the treacherous waters of his family's expectations. But he knew that he had no other choice, that any sign of dissent could spell disaster for him and those he held dear.

Nicholas's father's voice rang out with the casual cruelty of someone accustomed to wielding their privilege like a weapon. "That is true, my boy," he remarked, his tone dripping with condescension. "Oh, and I heard you're married to the Frenchie. How is it then? I heard those French girls were completely fiery."

The words cut through the air like a blade, slicing through Harry's composure with surgical precision. His jaw clenched tight with barely restrained fury, every muscle in his body tensing against the urge to lash out. But he knew he couldn't afford to lose control, not here, not in front of these men who revealed their ignorance and privilege.

Forcing a tight smile, Harry nodded in response to the question about his marriage to Camille, though his fingers tightened around his silverware with a barely perceptible tremor. "Yes, it's...going well," he replied, his voice strained with the effort to conceal his true emotions.

Nicholas, emboldened by the alcohol coursing through his veins, leaned in closer with a drunken grin, his breath hot against Harry's ear. "Oh, come on," he slurred, his words merging into a slur, "we want details!"

The eruption of laughter from the other men at the table felt like a physical blow, their leering gazes stripping away Harry's defences until he felt exposed and vulnerable. But he knew he had to maintain the facade, to play the role expected of him in this den of wolves.

"Well," Harry began, his voice wavering slightly, "you know how it is... some things are best kept private."

Nicholas's arm tightened around his shoulders with a roughness that bordered on aggression, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Oh, come on, Harry," he persisted, his tone laced with mock concern, "don't be shy! We're all friends here, aren't we?"

The dark chuckles of the men around the table reverberated off the walls of the opulent dining room, their camaraderie a stark reminder of Harry's isolation. Yet, he swallowed his pride, burying his anger beneath a mask of compliance. In a world where conformity reigned supreme, Harry knew he had no choice but to bow to the whims of those who held sway over him.

Across the table, his father's gaze bore into him, a silent reminder of the role Harry was expected to play in upholding the family legacy. But beneath the facade of respectability, Harry felt suffocated by the weight of his own desires, longing for the freedom to forge his own path.

The next day, the atmosphere in Desmond's office was tense as he sat behind his desk, his brow furrowed in deep thought. Around him, his associates shuffled papers and exchanged nervous glances, the weight of the impending task evident in their expressions.

"Gentlemen," Desmond began, his voice commanding attention as he addressed his team. "What have you gathered so far?"

Niall, seated at the table, nodded in agreement, his expression serious. "I started looking into what legal measures we can take to prevent the manifestation from happening."

Desmond leaned forward, his eyes flashing with determination. "And I want you to see if we can enrol the police to assist us. We need to ensure that this demonstration is stopped before it gains any momentum."

Harry, who had been listening quietly from his seat, felt a knot form in his stomach at his father's words. He knew he couldn't stay silent any longer. "Father, I'm not sure this is the right approach," he interjected, his voice hesitant but firm.

Desmond turned to look at his son, his expression hardening. "And why not, Harry? These manifestations pose a threat to our society. They promote degeneracy and immorality."

Harry took a deep breath, steeling himself to speak his mind. "We can't just silence them because we disagree with their message. Plus, we can’t have the police involved. Nothing says people have no rights to manifest"

Desmond's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening with frustration. "Harry, you know where our loyalties lie. We have a duty to uphold the law and protect the values of our society."

Harry shook his head, his voice tinged with desperation. "They are fighting for human rights."

Desmond sighed heavily, “Is that what you want your children to learn ? Is that what we want to see in the streets ? Men kissing each other ? Women with beards ? Is that what this kingdom has come to?"

Harry felt a sense of defeat wash over him, knowing that his father's words carried weight within their firm.

Desmond leaned forward, his fingers steepled on the table, a scowl marrying his features. "Furthermore, I've received intel suggesting that someone within this... movement, if we can even call it that, is attempting to repeal Section 28. Horan, I tasked you with uncovering names. What have you discovered?"

Harry stole a glance at Niall, who suddenly flushed crimson, his discomfort palpable as he nervously fidgeted with his wedding ring. Harry furrowed his brow, noting the telltale signs of unease in his colleague.

"Um... nothing, sir," Niall stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. "It appears that all individuals associated with the movement are keeping their identities concealed. There's no traces."

"I'm confident we can find alternative methods to uncover their identities," Desmond asserted, turning to address another associate. "Daniels, you know what needs to be done." Desmond sighed again, a heavy weight settling on his shoulders. "We'll do what we have to do. For the greater good."

Desmond stood, taking with him the briefcase he had placed on the desk. ‘’Horan, call Payne and see if he can have some of his men on the streets. Harry, I want you to call the Grimshaw’s office, and see if he can pass any laws, any things, that could help us dissolve them.”

With any other words, Desmond left the office, all the men gathered around the table letting out breath they were holding, Harry slopping on his chair with a groan. Niall patted his shoulder with a small smile, unable to bring him comfort as the fear of losing his job was too high.

“Alright, let’s go over this once again.” Another man said.

The discussion continued late into the afternoon, with the associates weighing the potential legal strategies and ethical implications of their actions. As they debated the best course of action, Harry couldn't shake the feeling of disillusionment that settled over him like a dark cloud, knowing that the fight for justice was far from over.

Returning to his office and deciding to call it a day, enjoying the perks of being the boss's son, Harry slammed his briefcase down on his desk and loosened his tie. Just as he was about to relax, the phone on his desk began to ring, startling him.

Frowning, he checked his watch before answering. "Styles?"

"It's Liam."

Harry paused, surprised by the call from Liam, especially at work. He sank into his leather chair, resting his elbow on the armrest. "I'm listening."

"What's going on? Why does your dad want us to step up on Saturday?"

Harry felt a knot form in his stomach at Liam's words. He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to gather his thoughts. "I... I tried to talk him out of it. But there's nothing stopping the police from being present during demonstrations."

"Harry, he wants us to confront them. To make them back down," Liam's voice was urgent, tinged with worry.

"I don't know what to do, Liam..." Harry sighed, feeling overwhelmed.

"Grow a backbone for once," Liam spat, the frustration evident in his tone, before abruptly hanging up, leaving Harry alone with the echoing beep of the disconnected call.

As Harry entered the King's College Library, he was immediately struck by the grandeur of the space. The towering shelves were lined with books of every size and colour, while the scent of old paper and leather filled the air. The ceiling soared high above, adorned with intricate mouldings and chandeliers that cast a warm glow over the room.

Finding his way to the law section, Harry settled into a quiet corner with a stack of books on Section 28. As he flipped through the pages, his mind drifted back to his days at Oxford, where he and Louis would often meet in the libraries to study or steal quiet moments together. Lost in his memories, Harry glanced up from his book and caught sight of a couple stealing a kiss in the aisle nearby. A pang of longing shot through him as he watched them, the intimacy between them a stark contrast to the loneliness he felt in that moment.

Shaking himself from his reverie, Harry returned to his research, determined to find answers. After only half an hour of reading, he found a promising book and approached the counter to borrow it. The girl behind the desk, a redheaded student with thick glasses, looked up as he approached.

"Um, excuse me," Harry began, clearing his throat. "Do you know where the Literature class is?"

The girl smiled kindly, adjusting her glasses. "Of course! It's the white building right on the left. You can't miss it."

"Um, sorry," Harry interrupted, returning to the counter and tapping his fingers on the polished oak surface. He waited patiently until the girl noticed him, her attention turning to him with a curious glance. "Would you maybe know where I can find Professor Tomlinson?" he asked, his voice slightly hesitant.

At the mention of the name, the girl's cheeks flushed pink, and she hid a giggle behind her hand. "He's teaching at the Hafey-Marian Hall, second floor, class A," she replied with a knowing smile.

"Thank you!" Harry called over his shoulder as he hurried towards the door, the book pressed against his chest. Despite his efforts to maintain composure, his heart raced with anticipation at the thought of seeing Louis again.

Harry slipped into the lecture hall, he found a seat at the top row of the auditorium, hidden from view but with a perfect vantage point to watch Louis teach. The room was grand and imposing, with rows of wooden desks facing a raised podium where Louis stood, his figure commanding attention. The sunlight streaming through the large windows bathed him in a golden glow, accentuating his features as he turned to face the class. Harry's breath caught in his throat at the sight of him.

Louis wore a cream-coloured suit with a dark brown waistcoat that hugged his body perfectly, giving him an air of sophistication and authority. With thin, dark square glasses perched on his nose, Louis looked every bit the distinguished professor as he finished writing a quote on the chalkboard:

"A love that dare not speak its name."

Louis exuded confidence and charisma, his aura captivating as he addressed the students.

"So, last week we talked about Oscar Wilde's influence in literature. What can you say about it?" He inquired, leaning back against his desk with one hand casually resting on its surface, a piece of chalk held between his fingers.

A brown-haired boy raised his hand, and Louis nodded for him to speak. "His ideas on art, beauty, and personal freedom challenged Victorian puritanicalism," the student answered confidently.

Louis nodded in approval before turning to another student who had raised her hand. "He made his writings vital for the hom*osexual community after him," she added. "Wilde's works provided comfort and hope in the face of injustice."

Surprised by the insightful response, Louis raised both eyebrows at the girl. "What can you say about this subject then?" he prompted, inviting further discussion.

"I don’t think you need to be gay to appreciate Wilde’s writing," the student replied thoughtfully. "It's universal. There are many people, myself included, who identify with what he went through. You don’t have to be gay to empathise."

Louis circled the desk, facing the class with his palms pressed against its surface. Harry was completely entranced by his presence, feeling as though the room had shrunk to just Louis and himself.

Louis's voice rang out with authority, each word resonating with profound significance. "To regret one's own experiences is to arrest one's own development. To deny one's own experiences is to put a lie into the lips of one's own life. It is no less than a denial of the soul."

Harry felt a surge of emotion welling up inside him, his heart pounding with the weight of Louis's words. They seemed to pierce through his defences, striking a chord deep within him. He couldn't tear his gaze away from Louis, captivated by the intensity of his presence. It was as if Louis had chosen this quote specifically for him, a message meant to penetrate his soul and stir something within him.

"Wilde's unyielding embrace of his sexuality, despite the consequences he faced, imbued his writings with profound significance for the hom*osexual community. While he may be celebrated as a gay icon, it's important to recognize that he wasn't explicitly a gay rights campaigner. In the context of his time, discussing one's sexuality openly was virtually unheard of."

Louis paused, allowing his words to sink in before forging ahead. "Even though Wilde didn't openly discuss his sexuality in print, his writings still served as a beacon of hope for those facing oppression and persecution. His refusal to conform to societal norms challenged the status quo and paved the way for future generations to confront the injustices they faced."

He gestured to the world around them. "We've witnessed significant strides in the acceptance of diverse sexualities, yet there are still places where such freedoms are denied. Wilde's legacy reminds us of the ongoing struggle for equality and the importance of remaining vigilant against oppression."

As Louis continued to expound upon Wilde's legacy, the sound of the bell ringing startled Harry from his reverie. His book slipped from his fingers and landed on the floor with a soft thud, but amidst the noise of students gathering their belongings, it went unnoticed.

"Remember, the essays have to be on my desk by Monday morning," Louis reminded the class as they filed out of the room, leaving Harry to linger in his seat, his thoughts consumed by the man.

Harry descended the stairs, following the stream of students as they exited the lecture hall. He halted just at the edge of the elevated podium where Louis stood, his eyes fixed on him as he cleaned the chalkboard. Each movement was deliberate, methodical, and Harry couldn't tear his gaze away.

As Louis turned, his eyes widened in surprise at the sight of Harry lingering by his desk. He glanced around the emptying room before his gaze settled back on Harry, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words emerged.

"Hi, professor," Harry greeted softly, a shy smile playing on his lips. His cheeks flushed with a faint hue of red as he stood there, feeling exposed under Louis's gaze.

Louis set the cloth and chalk down on his desk with deliberate slowness, the sound echoing in the empty classroom. His movements were deliberate, his gaze focused on Harry with a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes. Leaning casually against the edge of the desk, he addressed Harry with a teasing tone.

"What brings you to my classroom after hours, Mr. Styles?"

Harry felt a rush of excitement at the playful banter, his pulse quickening at the proximity between them. "Just thought I'd... drop by," he replied, a faint smile playing on his lips as he met Louis's gaze.

Louis arched an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he leaned back slightly, his posture relaxed yet inviting. "Is that so? I don’t recall you having any business here," he teased, his eyes raking over Harry's form with unabashed interest.

Harry's heart raced as he felt Louis's gaze on him, the air crackling with tension between them. "I don't," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze flickering between Louis's eyes and the door.

Louis's expression softened, a knowing glint in his eyes as he replied, "No classes for the next hour."

A surge of desire coursed through Harry's veins, his thoughts consumed by the magnetic pull between them. With a determined step, he walked over to the door, pausing in front of it and using that time to collect himself. Everytime he and Louis would end up alone, Harry was only the shadow of himself, completely consumed by all those years of prisoned desires. When he opened them, he confidently locked the door, before turning back to face Louis.

Louis remained seated on the desk, his gaze never leaving Harry's as anticipation hung heavy in the air.

Their eyes locked, a silent understanding passing between them as Harry stepped onto the podium. As soon as he was situated in between his legs, his hands found their way to his thighs, hiking him up fully on the oak surface, lips plastering themselves to Louis’ thin ones.

It was electric, a jolt of desire coursing through Harry's veins as he melted into the embrace, Louis’ hands tangling in his hair as they deepened the kiss. Like they would always do since the very first time, they lost themselves in each other, the thrill of being caught only adding to the intensity of their passion. It was reckless, dangerous, but in that moment, neither of them cared. All that mattered was the heady rush of desire and the intoxicating feeling of being together, if only for a fleeting moment.

A week apart had felt both like an eternity and a mere heartbeat, their bodies now tangled together in a frenzy of need and desire. They clung to each other with an almost desperate urgency, their lips crashing together in a hungry, feverish kiss. Their movements were fueled by possessiveness and longing, each touch igniting sparks of pleasure that danced across their skin. Moans and gasps filled the room, mingling with the sound of heavy breaths and the rhythmic pounding of their hearts.

With urgency, Harry pushed Louis off of the desk, blindly reaching for his belt and tugging it open as he kept kissing him, letting Louis suck on his tongue. Once he felt the trousers falling from Louis’ hips, he pulled his mouth away and brought his hand up. He noticed how Louis’ eyes went for his ring, and instead of letting him speak, he stuck his two fingers in Louis’ mouth, watching his ring disappear between his lips.

“Look at you,’’ Harry mumbled between gritted teeth, his free hand busy with taking away Louis’ underwear. “What would the students say if they saw you like this ?’’

Louis moaned around the fingers, face red and eyes dark as he kept swirling his tongue around and between them, his own hands reaching for Harry’s belt, tugging desperately at it until it fell on the podium with a thud.

Free from the fabric, Harry took his fingers out and spun Louis around, forcing him against the desk. With his foot, he forced Louis legs apart, causing Louis’ hands to fall flat on the desk, his back taking a beautiful arch.

“What would your father say if he-’’ Louis was cut by Harry’s fingers entering him, wet and thick, his voice breaking around a moan. “f*ck, Harry,’’

“Hm?’’ He murmured, lips right against Louis’ ear and free hand sneaking under his crisp shirt to reach for his nipple. “What were you saying, Professor ?’’

Louis licked his dry lips, forcing his eyes open while Harry’s fingers moved with precision and perfection inside of him. He simply turned his head, showcasing the most delightful smirk, biting his lips in provocation. “f*ck me,’’

The movement of Harry’s fingers stopped for only a small second before he pulled his fingers out, reaching his palm out for Louis to lick obscenely. He tugged at his own co*ck, using Louis’ spit and his own precome. Body buzzing with excitement and lust, he wasted no time in lining himself up, adjusting Louis’ hips with a hand on his stomach before he pushed all the way in with a sigh of satisfaction.

He started by rolling his hips, slowly pushing in and out, wanting to let Louis get used to the feeling and intrusion. But always so eager, Louis arched even more, leaning his whole chest on the desk as he raised a knee to place on the edge of the surface, changing the angle, pulling Harry deeper.

Harry’s hands immediately switched places. One firmly gripping his hip, the other clasped on Louis’ shoulder.

Losing control of himself, Harry tilted his head back and abandoned himself into Louis’ heat, forgetting about everything else but his own please, his hips slapping constantly against the meat of Louis’ ass.

And when Louis moaned loudly, he quickly clamped his hand over his mouth, leaned against him. “Wouldn’t want them to hear you, darling.”

It was either the nickname, or the force within Harry was pounding into him, but Louis moaned even louder against his palm, hands gliding on the oak surface to grip on the edge of the desk, pushing some books and papers on the floor in his haste.

Harry groaned in response, Louis' head falling against the desk with a thud. Sure that he was going to keep quiet, seeing him bite on his own skin, Harry straightened himself once more, gripping the back of Louis’ shirt, bunching it up against the small of his back in order to stare, mesmerised by the way his co*ck moved inside his lover, over and over again.

Keeping a firm hand on his hip, he brought the other one on Louis’ stomach, without thinking of the effect it would have. Simply wanting to keep Louis upward, the warmth of his palm and the slight pressure on his lower stomach was enough to send Louis to the edge.

“God, I can feel it,’’ Harry moaned, pressing a bit harder. “Can you feel it?” He breathed out, keeping his hand firmly there, his hips never stopping.

“Yes!’’ Louis gasped recklessly, voice barely audible among the skin to skin slapping. “I can, f*ck, I can.”

Louis made choked off noises in the back of his throat with every thrusts before his body started to shake, collapsing on the surface of the desk, his fingers letting go of the furniture, whimpering. The simple sound of his voice and the view of the side of his face basking in pleasure is what brought Harry to his org*sm. Pulling out as carefully as he could, bunching Louis’ shirt higher in his hand, he only had to tug on his co*ck twice, watching ribbons of white painting the golden skin of Louis’ back.

Feeling his whole body tingle with pleasure, Harry blindly caressed Louis’ side as he tried to regain his breath, reaching for the tissues on the desk to wipe his back.

"I can't teach," Louis whined, tugging at his shirt in frustration, his hands fumbling behind him as he tried to smooth out the wrinkles. "I can't think," he muttered to himself, wincing as he let his leg slip from the edge of the desk. "I can't stand," he complained, feeling his legs tremble beneath him.

"Easy there," Harry's voice came from behind him, his arm wrapping securely around Louis' waist.

Louis leaned back into Harry's embrace, seeking comfort in his solid presence, his eyes fluttering shut as he basked in the warmth radiating from him. Glancing at the clock, he let out a sigh before turning to face Harry fully, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Join me tonight?" he asked, his voice tinged with longing.

As they swiftly finished dressing, each helping the other with their ties and smoothing down stray hairs, Harry grabbed his book. With one last stolen kiss from Harry's lips, Louis walked him to the door.

Just as Louis opened it, his left cheek still bearing a faint red mark from where he had pressed against the desk, he froze in his tracks, causing Harry to bump into his back. Cillian stood there, his fist raised as if ready to knock on the door.

The three men stood in silence, tension thick in the air. Cillian's gaze hardened immediately, a muscle twitching in his jaw with barely contained anger. However, he didn't spare a glance for Harry, not even once.

"I—" Louis began, but Cillian cut him off coldly.

"We were supposed to have lunch,"

"I'm sorry, I didn't realise the time, I ju—" Louis attempted to explain.

"Let's go then," Cillian interrupted again, his tone leaving no room for argument as he raised an expectant eyebrow at Louis.

Harry felt a surge of frustration and helplessness as he watched Louis and Cillian leave, his heart sinking with every step they took away from him. He clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white as he fought the urge to chase after them and confront Cillian.

Taking a deep breath, he straightened up and left the classroom, his thoughts consumed by the promise of their evening together. Despite the lingering tension and the presence of Cillian looming over them, Harry refused to let anything dampen his spirits. He would see Louis again, and nothing else mattered in that moment.

Entering the small room reserved for the professors, Louis felt horribly jittery in the presence of Cillian cold aura. His usual confident and sassy demanour was always put at challenge in the presence of the older man.

Although they came back from a few years of acquaintance, Cillian's facade of generosity lurked a darker truth – a toxic relationship built on manipulation and control. And as Louis' eyes met Cillian's across the room, he could sense the simmering resentment and jealousy that lay beneath the surface.

"You seem awfully cosy with that young man," Cillian remarked, his tone laced with thinly veiled disdain. "Quite the departure from your usual company, isn't it?"

Louis bristled at Cillian's insinuation, his jaw clenched with frustration. "Harry is a friend," he replied tersely, his voice tinged with irritation. "And I fail to see how my choice of companionship is any concern of yours."

Cillian's next words hit Louis like a blow to the gut, freezing him in place. "You f*ck all your friends, Louis?" he asked, his voice dripping with venom.

He felt a chill run down his spine at Cillian's accusation, his stomach twisting with unease. He turned away, unable to meet Cillian's gaze as he busied himself with preparing a cup of tea.

But Cillian wasn't finished yet. His eyes flashed with a dangerous gleam as he continued, his voice laced with malice. "And you see, my dear Louis, your choices have a way of affecting us all," he sneered. "Especially when those choices involve abandoning your responsibilities and running off with someone unworthy of you."

Louis felt a surge of anger rise within him, his hands trembling with frustration. "I have not abandoned anything," he shot back, his voice tinged with defiance. "And I will not apologise for finding happiness in unexpected places."

Cillian's laughter rang out like a taunting melody, a cruel sound that pierced through Louis' defences. "Happiness, you say?" he scoffed, his tone dripping with scorn. "Forgive me if I find that hard to believe. But then again, you've always had a talent for fooling yourself, haven't you, Louis?"

The weight of Cillian's words hung heavy in the air, suffocating Louis with their harsh reality. He struggled to maintain his composure, his heart pounding in his chest as Cillian stepped closer, his presence looming over Louis like a dark cloud.

"You don’t own me," Louis whispered shakily, his voice barely above a whisper.

Cillian's response was chilling, his words sending a shiver down Louis' spine. "I do," he murmured, his voice low and menacing. "Who found you when you ran off and your father disowned you? Who suggested your name to the Department head and found you this job? I've always been here. And I'll always be. You know I'm the only one who understands."

The day melted into a blur for Harry as he eagerly anticipated his evening with Louis. At work, he found it difficult to concentrate, his mind constantly drifting to thoughts of Louis and the unresolved questions about his relationship with Cillian. Despite the importance of the tasks at hand, Harry's knee bounced with nervous energy, a physical manifestation of his inner turmoil.

His thoughts were consumed by memories of Louis—his voice, his touch, his presence. Harry felt a mix of excitement and guilt coursing through him. He couldn't shake the feeling of anticipation, the same hunger he felt when he was eighteen, yet now tempered with the confidence and assurance that came with age. He found himself believing that he could compete with Louis's other suitors, confident in his own allure and desirability.

As he made his way home, the anticipation only intensified. Camille's greeting at the doorstep and the aroma of dinner filled the house, but Harry felt strangely disconnected, as if he were merely going through the motions of domesticity.

Throughout dinner, Harry struggled to focus on Camille's conversation, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of Louis. He felt a pang of guilt for betraying Camille's trust, for allowing himself to indulge in his desires at the expense of their relationship. But the allure of Louis was too strong, pulling him irresistibly towards their illicit rendezvous.

Watching Camille as she washed the dishes, Harry's internal conflict reached a fever pitch. He felt torn between his loyalty to Camille and his desire for Louis, the guilt gnawing at him from within. Yet, beneath the guilt lay a simmering excitement, a thrill at the prospect of rekindling his passion with Louis.

When he finally stood up from his chair, a twinge in his thighs reminding him of his afternoon with Louis, Harry felt a pang of guilt. Yet, it wasn't enough to deter him from his plans.

"I'm heading out tonight," he announced abruptly, interrupting Camille mid-sentence. "With Miles," he added hastily as she turned to him.

Camille remained silent, her hands reaching for his hair as she drew closer to him. She kissed him deeply, and though Harry reciprocated, his eyes remained fixed on the clock behind her.

"I'm glad you made friends," Camille murmured as she pulled away.

As Harry stood on the sidewalk, his gaze fixed on the dimly lit facade of the Old Dog and Partridge, a flood of memories washed over him. This was the place where it all began, where he first ventured into the world of the queer community with Louis by his side. Now, five years later, he found himself back in Nottingham, unsure of what to expect.

The atmosphere seemed to hum with anticipation, the faint sound of laughter and chatter drifting from within the pub. Harry felt a strange mixture of excitement and apprehension swirling in his chest as he contemplated stepping through those doors once again.

He couldn't help but wonder about the people who would be inside—old acquaintances, perhaps, or new faces that had emerged in the years since he left. Thoughts of Liam and Cillian flickered through his mind, but it was Zayn who lingered there, a shadowy figure from the past that still held sway over his thoughts.

With a steadying breath, Harry reached into his pocket for his pack of cigarettes, his fingers fumbling slightly as he retrieved one and lit it. The familiar ritual brought a sense of calm, grounding him in the present moment as he watched the movements of the people outside the pub.

Two men slipped through the back door, casting cautious glances over their shoulders before disappearing inside. Harry couldn't help but feel a pang of recognition, a shared understanding of the secrecy and subterfuge that often accompanied life in the shadows.

Despite the progress that had been made in recent years, Harry knew that for many, the struggle for acceptance and freedom was far from over. Some, like himself, lived double lives, navigating the complexities of family and society while seeking solace and connection in places like the Old Dog and Partridge.

As he stubbed out his cigarette and took a final deep breath, Harry felt a surge of determination coursing through him. Tonight, he would confront his past and embrace the present, ready to rediscover the sense of liberation and camaraderie that had drawn him to this place all those years ago.

As Harry pushed open the heavy wooden door of the Old Dog and Partridge, he was immediately enveloped by a wave of warmth and sound. The dimly lit interior was alive with activity, the air thick with the mingling scents of tobacco smoke and spilled ale. The strains of a lively jazz tune filled the space, lending an air of energy and camaraderie to the atmosphere.

His senses were overwhelmed as he stepped further into the pub, taking in the sight of people huddled around tables, engaged in animated conversation or swaying to the music. The room was a tapestry of colours and textures, with the flickering candlelight casting a warm glow over the scene.

As Harry navigated through the crowded pub, he sensed the weight of numerous eyes fixed upon him, their gazes ranging from curious to appreciative. Men turned their heads to catch a glimpse of him, offering sly winks and suggestive smiles as he made his way through the dimly lit space, the air thick with the scent of cigarette smoke.

Feeling a mixture of nerves and excitement coursing through him, Harry pushed forward, manoeuvring through the throng of bodies. Suddenly, he felt a light brush on his arm and then around his wrist, causing him to whip his head around in surprise. His eyes locked with those of a man who offered him a playful smile, his tongue darting out to touch his straw before he walked away hand in hand with another man, leaving Harry slightly stunned by the encounter.

"Harry?" Liam exclaimed, his voice barely audible over the din of the pub. He turned in his stool, eyes scanning Harry's outfit with obvious approval. "Well, I'll be damned. Look who decided to grace us with his presence."

For this particular evening, Harry aimed to make a statement with his attire, embodying the confidence and allure he felt in Louis's presence. He opted for a hidden gem from his wardrobe: black drainpipe trousers, high-waisted and flared at the legs, which hugged his slender waist and accentuated his round backside. With each step, his leather shoes emitted a subtle clinking sound against the wooden floor of the pub.

Preferring not to attract too much attention, he chose a crisp white button-up shirt, impeccably tailored to fit his broad shoulders. He left the top two buttons undone, revealing a glimpse of his chest adorned with a glinting golden chain in place of his usual cross necklace. His hair was meticulously styled, with a single strand carefully arranged to wave across his forehead, curling just between his brows.

As he moved closer to his friend, the scent of his cologne lingered in his wake, infusing him with a sense of confidence, handsomeness, and capability.

Harry couldn't help but grin at Liam's reaction, feeling a surge of confidence wash over him. "Thought I'd come see what all the fuss was about," he replied, gesturing to the bustling crowd around them. "Looks like I've been missing out."

As Harry turned towards the bar, he was caught off guard by the sudden appearance of Zayn emerging from the double doors, a cloth slung over his shoulder. Their eyes met, and Harry felt a chill run down his spine as Zayn's smile faded, replaced by a look of disdain.

"Oh, you're alive," Zayn remarked with a hint of disappointment, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He sighed heavily and tossed the cloth onto the bar, focusing on polishing a glass as if Harry didn't exist.

Unsure of how to react, Harry exchanged a glance with Liam, who offered him a reassuring pat on the back before addressing Zayn. "Zayn, come on, play cool. Harry's a friend," Liam interjected, attempting to diffuse the tension.

Zayn snorted in response, his movements becoming more deliberate as he wiped down the glasses, his silk shirt adorned with bold gold motifs catching Harry's eye. As Zayn's movements revealed the ink on his skin, Harry found himself mesmerised by the sight, his shock mingling with a sense of fascination.

"Friend?" Zayn echoed, his accent seemingly more pronounced as he shot Harry a piercing stare. His caramel-coloured eyes seemed to bore into Harry's soul, their intensity both menacing and captivating. "If I could, I'd forbid him from even stepping foot in here."

Harry refused to back down, meeting Zayn's gaze head-on. "I guess not everyone changes for the best," he retorted, his tone firm, a hint of challenge in his voice. He wanted to assert himself, to let Zayn know that he was no longer the naive kid who first walked into the pub five years ago.

However, Zayn remained just as determined, his gaze lingering on Harry's body, assessing him with a critical eye. Harry felt a shiver run down his spine as Zayn's gaze settled on his hand, raising an eyebrow in a deliberate manner. "How's your wife then?" he asked, his words loaded with implications.

Before Harry could respond, Liam intervened once again, his tone pleading. "Zayn, come on," he urged, a note of frustration creeping into his voice. “Get him a drink.’’

A drink, Harry got. Maybe two, or twenty.

He got lost in conversation with Liam, lost in watching those men entangled together, kissing and whispering, the music, the warmth of the place and the alcohol slowly losing his limbs and his tongue, making him feel more and more at ease, more and more comfortable.

“I just don’t know what to do.’’ He complained, drinking down the remnant of Brandy in his glass, tapping the glass on the mahogany surface for Zayn to refill it, the glass coming back to him more full than the precedent each time. “I don’t.. I don’t like to lie. I don’t feel like she deserves it. But I can’t.. I can’t simply let him go. It’s physically impossible.’’

Liam sighed next to him, twirling his beer with a flick of his wrist, eyes strained on Zayn. ‘’I know..’’

The sound of people cheering and screaming made Harry forget about Zayn, and everything else when he saw what caused that ruckus.

As the pulsating rhythm of disco filled the air, Louis danced with an effortless grace that captivated everyone around him. His choice of attire only added to his allure, denim high-waisted fitted jeans flaring at the ends, emphasising the fullness of his bum and the thickness of his thighs. Paired with heeled boots that lent him extra height and a sense of confidence, Louis exuded a magnetic presence that commanded attention.

His outfit was completed by a flowery shirt, its fabric slightly oversized and nearly translucent under the soft glow of the pub lights. With each twist and turn, the shirt billowed around him, accentuating his lithe frame and highlighting the subtle curves of his body. As he danced, his movements were fluid and effortless, his hips swaying in time with the music as if he were born to move to its rhythm.

Harry couldn't tear his eyes away from Louis, mesmerised by his beauty and the fluidity of his movements. Louis moved with an innate sensuality, his hips swaying to the beat, his hands weaving through the air as if painting invisible strokes of music. The music, a blend of funk and soul, pulsed through the speakers, infusing the atmosphere with an electric energy that seemed to surge through every person in the room.

As Harry watched from the bar, he felt a mixture of longing and frustration. He wanted nothing more than to join Louis on the dance floor, to lose himself in the music and the heat of their bodies moving together. But he couldn't shake the feeling of being an outsider, of standing on the sidelines while Louis danced with others, his laughter mingling with the music.

"He's quite something, isn't he?" Cillian's voice cut through the pulsating music, drawing Harry's attention away from Louis's mesmerising dance.

Harry clenched his jaw, his irritation bubbling to the surface at Cillian's observation. "What are you doing here?" he retorted sharply.

Cillian raised an eyebrow, his gaze flickering between Harry and Louis on the dance floor. "I'm wherever he is," he replied smoothly, a hint of amusem*nt in his tone.

Harry felt a surge of frustration, his fists tightening at his sides. "So you're just his lapdog?" he snapped, the edge in his voice betraying his simmering anger, amplified by the effects of alcohol. He refused to meet Cillian's gaze, unwilling to acknowledge the tension that crackled between them.

As the pulsating rhythm of the music filled the air, Cillian leaned against the bar, his gaze fixed on Harry with a smug confidence that grated on Harry's nerves.

"You know why you always act this way with me even though we've never met?" Harry's voice cut through the din of the crowded pub as he leaned in closer, his eyes narrowing with determination. He tilted his glass, the amber liquid sloshing within, before slamming it down on the sticky surface of the bar. "Because you're afraid. And you know why?"

Cillian's jaw twitched imperceptibly, but his confident smile remained firmly in place, his posture oozing arrogance. "Enlighten me," he quipped, his tone laced with sarcasm.

Harry's smirk widened as he locked eyes with Cillian, a surge of adrenaline coursing through him. "Because you know damn well that if I wanted to, I could make him do whatever I wanted," As he spoke, Harry's gaze flickered to where Louis stood on the dance floor, his heart skipping a beat as their eyes met. The beginning notes of his favourite song echoed through the pub, emboldening him further. With a defiant smirk, Harry straightened to his full height, his stance exuding confidence as he held Cillian's gaze, self-assured swagger in his movements as he reached up to undo another button of his shirt, the fabric shifting to reveal a tantalising glimpse of skin. "And you're in luck, because that's exactly what I intend to do."

As "Miss You" by the Rolling Stones reverberated through the pub, Harry felt a surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins. This was his moment, his chance to show Louis that he was ready to embrace this part of himself, ready to fight for him with every fibre of his being.

With a determined smirk, Harry made his way through the crowd, his eyes locked on Louis who was already watching him, a playful glint in his eyes as he moved to the rhythm of the music, the straw between his teeth barely concealing his smile.

As Harry reached Louis, leaving a few inches between them, the energy in the room seemed to shift, all eyes turning to watch him as he took centre stage. With each beat of the drum and strum of the guitar, he let himself be carried away by the music, allowing his body to move in sync with the pulsating rhythm.

He shimmied and swayed, his hips moving with a fluid grace that commanded attention. With each step, he felt a newfound sense of confidence surging through him, emboldening him to express himself fully in this moment.

Mouthing the words to the song, Harry lost himself in the music, his movements becoming more exaggerated and uninhibited with each passing second. He spun and twirled, his body a blur of motion as he danced with a passion and intensity that was impossible to ignore.

As the crowd watched in awe, Harry felt a sense of liberation wash over him, a feeling of freedom and empowerment that he had never experienced before. In this moment, surrounded by the pounding rhythm of the music and the electric energy of the crowd, Harry knew that he was finally embracing his true self, unapologetically and without reservation.

As the first verse passed and Mick Jagger's high-pitched voice echoed through the pub, Harry felt a surge of energy coursing through him. With a mischievous grin, he brought his fist up and co*cked one hip, his movements fluid and confident as he thrusted his hips in back and forth and danced to the rhythm of the music.

Around him, other men on the dance floor began to follow suit, joining in and singing along to the catchy tune. Harry couldn't help but smile as he noticed Louis's friends copying his moves, dancing behind him with enthusiasm.

Meanwhile, Louis remained rooted in place, his eyes fixed on Harry with unwavering intensity. Leaning next to the record player, his drink now empty, Louis watched Harry's every move with rapt attention. The straw remained between his lips, a silent witness to his captivation, as he observed the sway of Harry's hips and the infectious energy that radiated from him.

As the music gradually faded, leaving only Mick's voice for his little speech, Harry slowed his dancing, still mouthing the words with fervour. He licked his lips, feeling a rush of adrenaline coursing through him as he watched Louis set his glass down.

With his heart racing and his breath slightly laboured, Harry's eyes never left Louis as he moved with a feline grace, circling him with an enticing allure. The other men around them cheered and clapped, adding to the electric atmosphere pulsating around them.

As Louis disappeared behind him, Harry glanced over his shoulder, anticipation building within him. When he felt Louis brush past him, Harry seized the opportunity, reaching out to grab him by the waist and pull him close against his chest. He leaned in, his lips brushing against Louis's ear as he whispered the lyrics of the song, a playful smile dancing on his lips.

And when the lively beat of trumpets and heavy drums exploded through the speakers, the dance floor erupted into motion once again. Louis moved his hips back and forth in perfect synchrony with Harry's, their bodies moving in harmony to the infectious rhythm of the music.

Surrounded by laughter and claps, by the music and the smell of cigarettes, Harry easily forgot about whoever could be watching, especially when Louis spun around, linking his arms behind his neck. With a thigh in between Louis’ legs, Harry kept on moving his lips, his hands travelling on Louis’ waist, up to his arms, unlinking them and raising them in the air, linking their fingers together as their hips grounded together.

As the music faded into the background, Harry and Louis found themselves still swaying gently in each other's arms, the heat of the moment lingering between them. With flushed cheeks and playful glints in their eyes, they stood close, the pulsating energy of the dance floor surrounding them.

Harry couldn't tear his gaze away from Louis, his heart racing with a mixture of excitement and nervousness. "You're quite the dancer," he remarked, a teasing smile playing on his lips as he brushed a loose strand of hair away from Louis's face.

Louis chuckled, the sound sending a shiver down Harry's spine. "And you're not too bad yourself," he replied, his voice low and husky as he leaned in closer to Harry. "But I have to admit, you surprised me out there. I didn't know you had those moves in you."

"Well, there's a lot you don't know about me," he said, his tone laced with playful innuendo as he leaned in even closer to Louis.

Their proximity sent a jolt of electricity through the air, the chemistry between them palpable. Harry could feel the heat radiating from Louis's body, the warmth seeping into his own skin as they stood inches apart.

“Maybe you could show me that again,”

Louis's request sent a thrill through Harry's veins, his heart quickening at the prospect of dancing for him again. As Louis gracefully manoeuvred through the crowd to the record player, Harry's gaze followed him like a hawk, his focus unwavering despite the curious eyes of the onlookers.

A mischievous grin played on Harry's lips as he watched Louis bend over to select a vinyl, the movement accentuating the curve of his backside. Harry couldn't resist the urge to lick his lips, the sight of Louis stirring something primal within him.

When the music started, Harry's laughter bubbled up from deep within him, his body instinctively swaying to the rhythm. The infectious energy of Elvis's voice filled the room, and Harry felt alive with anticipation.

Louis's nod signalled Harry to begin, and with a flourish, he launched into his dance, each movement executed with precision and flair. The crowd erupted into cheers and applause, their eyes fixated on Harry's every move.

With a playful smirk, Harry locked eyes with Louis, a silent challenge passing between them. He moved with fluidity and grace, his body responding effortlessly to the music's seductive melody.

“My daddy was a green-eyed mountain jack,

Because I’m evil,

My middle name is misery,’’

He mouthed the words, staring down at Louis with a smirk, his whole body like in transe as he danced. He felt a sense of liberation wash over him, his inhibitions melting away with each step. With closed eyes and a blissful smile, he surrendered himself to the music, allowing Louis's presence to guide him.

As the night wore on and the pub began to empty, Harry and Louis made their way back to the bar, the atmosphere growing quieter around them. In the distance, Liam and Zayn were engaged in what appeared to be a heated discussion, their gestures animated and voices carrying across the room.

Harry couldn't help but notice the tension between them, furrowing his brow as he wrapped his arm around Louis' waist for comfort. "What's going on with them?" he asked, concern lacing his tone as he observed the scene unfolding before them.

Louis sighed, leaning against the bar and signalling for another drink. "Let's just say Zayn could stand to care a little more, and Liam could stand to care a little less," he replied cryptically, his expression reflecting a mix of frustration and resignation.

As Harry continued to watch, he was taken aback when Zayn abruptly walked away from Liam, leaving him standing alone with a crestfallen expression. Harry made a move to go over and comfort his friend, but before he could take a step, Louis placed a hand on his chest, stopping him in his tracks.

"Stay here," Louis said firmly, placing a glass of brandy into Harry's hand. "Drink this,” He brought his face closer, playfully biting down at Harry’s lower lip, “and take me home."

All the doubt, confusion and worry slipped away from his body as he Louis left a small peck on his mouth before attacking his own drink. Even though he knew it was a safe place for them, he still couldn’t help but look over his shoulder.

Zayn reappeared behind the bar, his expression dark and his mood visibly soured. Without warning, he directed his aggression towards Harry, launching into a barrage of rude and cutting remarks.

"Look who's here, trying to play the hero," Zayn sneered, his tone dripping with disdain as he glared at Harry. "What, you think you're special because Louis is giving you the time of day now?"

Harry bristled at the unwarranted attack, his jaw tensing as he struggled to maintain his composure in the face of Zayn's hostility. Before he could respond, Louis intervened, rising from his seat with determination.

"That's enough, Zayn," Louis said firmly, his voice cutting through the tension in the air. He took Harry's hand in his own, offering him a reassuring squeeze. "You need to mind your own business."

Zayn's expression hardened at Louis's words, but he relented under the weight of Louis's unwavering gaze. With a frustrated huff, he turned away, retreating to the other end of the bar without another word.

“Let’s go,” Louis whispered to him.

As they stumbled into Louis's flat, Harry let out a drunken laugh, his face flushed with excitement. "You know, I think I could dance all night," he slurred, his words slightly slurred as he leaned against the wall for support.

Louis chuckled, his eyes unfocused as he kicked off his shoes and tossed his keys onto a nearby table. "You are quite good, I must admit," he replied, his voice warm and filled with amusem*nt.

With a mischievous grin, Harry reached out to grab Louis's hand, pulling him towards the living room. "Then let's dance some more," he declared, his movements unsteady but determined as he led Louis into a slow, swaying rhythm.

The room spun around them as they moved together, the music from earlier still echoing in their minds. Harry's heart raced as he gazed into Louis's eyes, feeling a sense of euphoria wash over him with each step.

They danced in silence for a while, the only sound the soft shuffle of their feet against the floor. As the music faded into the background, Harry rested his head against Louis's chest, his breath coming in uneven gasps.

Louis wrapped his arms around Harry, holding him close as they swayed together in the dimly lit room. "I could get used to this," he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to Harry's forehead.

Chapter 12: No Satisfaction

Chapter Text

Harry was jolted awake by the sound of a car horn blaring outside. Blinking groggily, he realised he was sleeping in an awkward position, one arm and leg dangling off the bed, with something warm and heavy draped over him. He winced as a sharp headache throbbed in his skull.

A soft grunt and warm breath against his chest made him shift uncomfortably, his body feeling sore and stiff. The remnants of alcohol in his stomach churned unpleasantly, the scent of his own breath making him grimace.

Glancing at the clock on Louis's wall, Harry's eyes widened in alarm, his heart skipping a beat. "f*ck!" he exclaimed, pushing Louis off him and scrambling to sit up, the room spinning for a moment. "Louis! Wake up! It's bloody late!"

"Hm?" Louis murmured sleepily, a lazy smile playing on his lips as he snuggled deeper into his pillow.

"Louis!" Harry called urgently, rushing into the room, panic rising in his chest as he realised he didn't have anything to wear to work. "I need a suit. Come on!"

He yanked the blanket off Louis's naked body, briefly distracted by the sight before shaking his head to clear his thoughts. Tugging on Louis's ankle, he urged him to wake up and help him sort out the mess they were in. Harry's urgent tone finally penetrated Louis's sleep-induced haze, and he groggily blinked his eyes open, squinting at Harry in confusion.

"What's going on?" he mumbled, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"We overslept!" Harry exclaimed, panic rising in his voice as he glanced at the clock again. "I have to be at work in less than an hour, and I don't have anything to wear!"

Louis's eyes widened in realisation as he sat up, the blanket slipping off his naked form. "sh*t," he muttered, scrambling out of bed and hastily searching for his own clothes.

Harry's heart raced as he watched Louis move, a strange mixture of frustration and affection swirling inside him. He knew he should be angry at the situation, but he couldn't help but feel a sense of warmth at the sight of Louis's tousled hair and sleepy expression.

"Here," Louis said, tossing a pair of trousers and a white shirt in Harry's direction. "These should do for now."

Harry caught the clothes and quickly began to dress, his movements hurried and clumsy. "Thanks," he muttered, feeling a pang of guilt for dragging Louis into his chaotic morning.

As Harry hastily brushed his teeth, trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep, Louis stepped up behind him, reaching over his shoulder to help him tie his tie. Harry tilted his head back, allowing Louis to work his magic, his fingers deftly knotting the tie into place.

With the tie sorted, Louis moved to fix Harry's unruly hair, smoothing down stray strands as Harry adjusted the sleeves of Louis's suit jacket. They hurriedly stumbled through the flat, scrambling to put on socks and shoes, laughter bubbling up between them.

Louis couldn't contain his amusem*nt as he watched Harry struggle with the length of his trousers, the hems riding up comically high. Harry groaned in mock frustration, but soon joined in Louis's laughter.

Finally ready to leave, they made a dash for the door, but Louis suddenly stopped in his tracks and dashed back to the bedroom. He returned moments later, his glasses perched on his nose, and reached for the doorknob.

Harry halted him with a hand on his waist, pulling Louis in for a slow, lingering kiss. Louis melted against him, whining softly as they savoured the moment together.

"Have a good day," Harry murmured against Louis's lips.

"Go before I lock this door with you inside," Louis replied with a playful nip at Harry's lips, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Harry bursted into the office, breathless and slightly dishevelled, his tie askew and his hair mussed up. He hurried past the rows of desks, apologising to his coworkers as he went, his mind racing with thoughts of the night before.

As he reached his own office, he didn’t have to wait more than five minutes for Niall to slide in, a cup of coffee in his hand.

“Figured you’d need it.” He chuckled at Harry's appearance. "Rough night, Haz?" he teased, handing him the cup.

Harry accepted the coffee with a grateful nod, taking a sip before answering with a sheepish grin. "You could say that," he admitted, his voice slightly hoarse from lack of sleep.

Niall raised an eyebrow, noticing the tight fit of Harry's clothes and the faint scent of Louis's cologne lingering around him. "Hmm, looks like quite the night," he remarked, a knowing glint in his eye.

Niall arched an eyebrow, his gaze drifting over Harry's tight-fitting clothes and the lingering scent of Louis's cologne. "Looks like quite the night," he remarked, a knowing glint in his eye.

Harry hesitated for a moment, weighing his options before deciding to come clean. "Yeah, went out for a few drinks with a friend, ended up crashing at his place," he confessed, hoping Niall wouldn't press for more details.

Niall stayed silent, his eyes flickering to Harry's trousers and then back to his face with a raised brow. "Those belong to him, don't they?" he asked knowingly.

Harry's heart skipped a beat, his stomach dropping as he struggled to form a coherent response. Before he could answer, however, his father barged into the office, his expression stern as he scolded Harry for being late once again.

"Harry Edward Styles, you're late again!" his father admonished, his voice echoing across the room.

Harry winced at the sound of his full name, knowing he was in for it now. "Sorry, I overslept," he muttered, avoiding his father's gaze.

His father's eyes narrowed as he took in Harry's dishevelled appearance, his suspicion evident in his tone. "And where did you get those clothes? They look a size too small," he remarked sharply.

Harry's heart sank as he realised he'd been caught red-handed. He exchanged a nervous glance with Niall before reluctantly admitting that the clothes were borrowed.

Desmond's face darkened with anger at Harry's admission, his brows furrowing in frustration. "Borrowed, huh? From who, exactly?" he demanded, his voice dripping with menace.

Harry swallowed nervously, knowing his dad wouldn't take kindly to the truth. "Just a friend," he replied vaguely, hoping to avoid any further interrogation.

Seeing the tension rising, Niall wisely decided to make himself scarce. "I'll, uh, leave you two to it," he said quickly, making a hasty exit from the office before Desmond could redirect his anger toward him.

Once they were alone, his anger boiled over, and he grabbed Harry by the collar of his shirt, pulling him close with a fierce grip. "You think this is a joke, Harry?" he growled, his breath hot against Harry's face. "You're playing with fire, and if you're not careful, you're going to get burned."

Harry winced at the intensity of his father’s words, feeling a surge of fear coursing through him. "I know, father, I'm sorry," he stammered, his voice shaky with nerves.

But his grip on Harry's shirt tightened, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinised his son's face. "And what about Camille?" he demanded, his tone accusatory. "Is she aware of your little escapades?"

Harry's heart sank at the mention of Camille, knowing he had betrayed her trust yet again. “Yes, she does. She is happy that I made friends," He tried to pull on the restraint, but his father’s grip was iron, and he felt the shame and the anger rising in him, tears stinging his eyes.

"You need to sort yourself out, Harry," he said firmly, releasing his grip on Harry's shirt. "Before you ruin everything."

Harry's mind raced as his father's words echoed in his ears. He knew he had messed up, yet again, and the weight of his mistakes bore down on him like a heavy burden. He couldn't bear the thought of disappointing his father any further, or of hurting Camille with his reckless behaviour.

As Desmond stormed out of the office, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts, a sense of shame washed over him. He knew he needed to get his act together, to straighten out his priorities and start making better choices. But as he glanced at his reflection in the window, the tired, dishevelled face staring back at him told a different story.

Niall returned to the office, concern etched on his face as he watched Harry in silence for a moment. "You okay, mate?" he asked softly, his voice filled with genuine worry.

Harry forced a smile, trying to shake off the heaviness in his chest. "Yeah, just a rough morning," he replied, his voice sounding hollow even to his own ears.

Niall nodded sympathetically, sensing that there was more to the story than Harry was letting on. "Well, if you ever need to talk, I'm here," he offered, a reassuring hand on Harry's shoulder.

Harry nodded gratefully, grateful for Niall's support even as he wrestled with his own demons. He knew he had a long road ahead of him, but for the first time in a while, he felt a glimmer of hope that he could find his way back to the right path.

Hours later, the atmosphere in the office was heavy with tension, the scent of cigar smoke and whiskey lingering in the air as Harry, Niall, and several other associates gathered around the television. The screen flickered to life, revealing a nondescript building near London Bridge, where the Gay Liberation Front had gathered in protest.

The images painted a vivid picture of defiance and determination. Activists stood shoulder to shoulder, their voices rising in unity against the oppression they faced. Banners adorned the walls, their bold slogans demanding equality and freedom for all queer individuals.

As Harry watched, a sense of unease settled in the pit of his stomach. He was torn between duty to his father and the stirring of empathy for the activists fighting for their rights.

"Our demands are simple: equality, freedom, and dignity for all queer individuals!" one activist proclaimed, their voice ringing out with unwavering conviction.

"We will not be silenced any longer! We refuse to hide in the shadows of society!" another shouted, their words echoing through the room.

Amidst the throng, a figure emerged, obscured by a bandana and cap, rendering his identity impossible to discern. The crowd parted to make way for him, allowing him to ascend a nearby wall with the Thames as his backdrop.

With a megaphone thrust into his hands by a young woman, he raised his voice, his words distorted yet commanding, slicing through the air with an undeniable force. Despite the barrier of the screen, Harry couldn't shake the chill that ran down his spine, stirred by the fervour of the speaker's impassioned words.

"My fellow comrades," he declared, his voice filled with passion, "today we stand united in defiance against a system that seeks to erase our existence. But we refuse to be erased! We refuse to bow down to bigotry and hate!"

The crowd erupted into cheers, their fervour palpable even through the screen. Harry felt a surge of emotion wash over him, a mixture of admiration for their courage and guilt for his own complicity in opposing the GLF. "We will not be intimidated! We will continue to fight until every queer person is free to live without fear or shame!"”

As the footage came to an end, Desmond rose from his chair with a grimace of disgust, his voice cutting through the tense silence. "We need to be prepared for the upcoming manifestation by the GLF," he declared, his tone firm and commanding. "This is a threat to our values and the stability of our society."

Niall and Harry stood by the large mahogany desk, their curiosity piqued as Desmond dropped a stack of papers, articles, and sticky notes with a resounding thud.

"What's all this?" Niall asked, leaning in to get a closer look at the scattered documents.

Desmond gestured to the pile with a grim expression. "These are the targets," he said, his voice tinged with determination. "Names of people suspected to be involved in queer activities, places suspected to host their meetings and gatherings."

As Niall and Harry sifted through the papers, their eyes widened with disbelief. The list was extensive, filled with names of individuals and establishments that Desmond deemed threats to their values.

Harry's heart skipped a beat when he spotted the name of the pub, The Old Dog and Partridge. His mind immediately drifted to Zayn and Louis, the memories flooding back with a visceral intensity. A surge of panic gripped him, his palms growing clammy and his hands shaking uncontrollably.

"Niall," Harry whispered, his voice barely audible above the rustle of paper, "look at this."

Niall's brow furrowed as he scanned the list, “I don’t understand ?’’

Harry gulped, his throat constricting with fear and uncertainty. The collision of his two worlds—the one he had carefully constructed with Camille and the one he had started with Louis—felt too dangerous to confront.

Desmond watched them with a steely gaze, his lips pressed into a thin line. "We need to shut down these places," he declared, his voice cutting through the tense silence. "We can't allow this filth to spread any further."

Harry's mind raced with conflicting emotions, torn between loyalty to his father and the nagging sense of guilt for betraying his own beliefs. But as he stared at the list before him, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was on the wrong side of history.

As Harry stepped through the door of their home, the atmosphere crackled with tension, the weight of the unspoken conflict hanging heavy in the air. Camille stood in the kitchen, her arms folded tightly across her chest, her expression a mixture of frustration and concern.

"Where have you been?" Camille's voice cut through the silence, her tone sharp with accusation. "I waited up for you all night, worried sick."

Harry felt a surge of guilt wash over him as he met Camille's gaze, knowing that he had caused her undue distress. He struggled to find the words to explain his absence, the truth caught in his throat like a bitter pill.

"I... I lost track of time," Harry stammered, his voice trailing off weakly.

Camille's eyes narrowed, her patience wearing thin. "Lost track of time? Harry, this isn't like you. You've never done this before."

Harry's heart sank at the disappointment in Camille's voice, the weight of his actions bearing down on him with crushing force. He longed to ease her worry, to erase the hurt etched into her features, but he knew that words alone would not suffice.

In a desperate bid to bridge the growing divide between them, Harry knew that Camille was his safety net, a facade shielding him from the truth of who he truly was. He couldn't risk losing her now, not when any suspicion could jeopardise his carefully constructed world, endangering not only himself but also Louis. So, with a heavy heart, he closed the distance between them, his hand tenderly cupping Camille's cheek.

"I'm sorry, Camille," he murmured softly, his voice tinged with remorse. "I didn't mean to worry you. Please, let me make it up to you."

But Camille recoiled from his touch, her eyes betraying a storm of emotions she struggled to contain. "I cooked breakfast for us, Harry," she whispered, her voice trembling with unspoken hurt. "I waited for you, hoping you'd come home."

Harry's heart twisted with guilt at the sight of Camille's distress, the weight of his deception heavy on his shoulders. She was unwittingly entangled in his father's machinations, collateral damage in the silent battle raging within him. Yet, he needed her to believe in his façade, to maintain the illusion of normalcy.

Desperate to salvage what remained of their connection, Harry leaned in to press a gentle kiss to Camille's lips, his silent plea for forgiveness mingling with the taste of her tears. At first, Camille remained stiff, her lips pursed in a facade of resistance. But as Harry kissed her once more, she relented, opening her arms to him in a silent embrace.

"Will you take me to bed?" she whispered, her voice tinged with vulnerability, a plea for reassurance and affection.

As Camille's whispered question hung in the air, Harry felt a pang of guilt pierce his heart like a dagger. He was torn between his loyalty to Camille and his love for Louis, his conscience heavy with the weight of his deception. But even as he grappled with his conflicting emotions, a paralysing fear gripped him—a fear that if he denied Camille, she would see through his carefully constructed facade, unravelling the web of lies he had woven.

With a broken heart and a soul heavy with remorse, Harry forced a faint smile, his lips trembling with unspoken apologies as he brushed a tender kiss against Camille's cheek. Every touch felt like a betrayal, a silent plea for forgiveness echoing in the depths of his mind as he led her to the bedroom.

In the quiet sanctuary of their shared space, Harry's facade crumbled, his tears mingling with the darkness that threatened to consume him. He longed to confess his sins, to beg Camille for forgiveness and release himself from the chains of deception. But as he gazed into her eyes, he saw only vulnerability and longing, a reflection of his own shattered innocence.

With a heavy heart and trembling hands, Harry kissed Camille once more, his touch a desperate attempt to drown out the echoes of his guilt. As they embraced, their bodies entwined in a delicate dance of deceit and desire, Harry's mind drifted to Louis—a silent prayer for forgiveness whispered in the depths of his soul.

And as Harry laid entangled with Camille, his heart ached with the weight of his secrets.

But even as he yearned for absolution, he knew that the path to redemption was fraught with uncertainty—a journey that would test his loyalty, his love, and his very sense of self. And as the darkness enveloped him, Harry clung to the fragile hope that one day, he would find the courage to face the truth and set himself free.

In order to appease Camille’s anger and to redeem for the time he had missed with her, but mostly because he didn’t want her to suspect anything and risk that she would complain to his mother, Harry spent the whole weekend with her. It had been a whirlwind of activities aimed at making her feel appreciated. He took her shopping, patiently waiting as she tried on outfit after outfit, offering his opinion with a smile. Then, he sat in the salon while she had her hair done, nodding along to her chatter about styles and colours.

Dinner was a quiet affair, with Harry listening attentively as Camille talked animatedly about various TV shows she enjoyed. His mind, however, was elsewhere, his thoughts drifting to the events of the past week and the nagging feeling that something was missing. Despite his efforts, Harry couldn't shake the guilt that washed over him every time he gave in to Camille's advances. Her clinginess only seemed to intensify with each intimate moment, leaving him feeling suffocated and trapped.

On Sunday morning found Harry accompanying Camille to church with his parents,

The morning sun filtered through stained glass windows as Harry sat in the pew beside Camille, his mind swirling with conflicting emotions. The solemn hymns echoed around the cavernous church, but Harry's thoughts were elsewhere, grappling with the weight of societal expectations and his own hidden desires. As the priest delivered his sermon on the sanctity of marriage, Harry's gaze drifted to Camille's profile, her serene expression a stark contrast to the turmoil churning within him. He couldn't shake the feeling of being trapped, suffocated by the suffocating confines of heteronormativity.

Camille reached for his hand, a gesture of comfort that only served to deepen Harry's sense of unease. He squeezed her fingers gently, offering a strained smile as he wrestled with the guilt of his own deception. How could he continue to play the role of dutiful husband when his heart belonged to another?

The service drew to a close, but Harry's internal struggle raged on, a silent battle waged beneath the facade of respectability. As he followed Camille out of the church, he couldn't shake the feeling of being an imposter in his own life, longing for the freedom to embrace his true self. the familiar prayers ringing hollow in his ears. He mechanically accepted the communion wafer, the weight of his wedding ring heavy on his finger.

The brunch that followed was a facade of perfection, with Harry engaging in polite conversation about work and other safe topics. But as he glanced at the young couple at the neighbouring table, sharing tender smiles over their milkshakes, he couldn't shake the sense of emptiness that gnawed at him. His mother's concerned gaze didn't escape his notice, her eyes seeming to search his face for signs of the turmoil brewing within him. Harry couldn't help but wonder if she could sense the growing discontentment he felt in his marriage, or if he was simply projecting his own internal struggles onto her.

One afternoon, Harry made his way back to Louis' flat under the guise of spending a moment with Miles.

As the smooth notes of jazz filled the air, inside the cosy flat, Louis sat at his desk, buried in a pile of papers as he diligently corrected copies. Meanwhile, Harry busied himself in the kitchen, a yellow apron tied around his waist atop his suit, his shirt open to reveal a white tank top beneath. With sleeves pushed up, he focused intently on the roast he was preparing, his movements fluid and graceful.

Louis couldn't tear his eyes away from Harry, the way he effortlessly moved around the kitchen with a sense of purpose and determination. With each subtle sway of his hips and every shimmy of his shoulders, Harry exuded a quiet confidence that left Louis captivated.

Lost in his own thoughts, Louis found himself biting down on his pen, his concentration slipping as he watched Harry work. The aroma of the roast filled the air, mingling with the soft strains of jazz to create an atmosphere of warmth and intimacy.

After a moment, Louis couldn't resist any longer. With a gentle sigh, he pushed aside his papers and made his way over to Harry, his footsteps slow and deliberate. As he approached, he wrapped his arms around Harry's waist from behind, cradling him in a tender embrace.

Harry leaned back into Louis' embrace, feeling the warmth of his body against his own. They swayed slowly together to the rhythm of the music, their movements synchronised as if they were dancing to an invisible melody.

Feeling Louis' presence behind him, Harry turned around, his eyes meeting Louis' with a mixture of affection and longing. Without a word, he closed the distance between them, capturing Louis' lips in a soft, lingering kiss.

Caught up in the intensity of their passion, Harry and Louis found themselves fumbling against the kitchen counter, their laughter echoing off the walls. With a playful grin, Harry hoisted Louis up onto the counter, their bodies pressed together in a fervent embrace.

But amidst the heat of their desire, a sudden realisation broke through the haze. "Food," Louis murmured against Harry's lips, his voice laced with laughter. "Harry, it's burning!"

Harry pulled away reluctantly, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Who cares about food when I have you?" he teased, his voice husky with desire.

But Louis shook his head with a laugh, gently pushing Harry away. "We can't let your masterpiece go to waste," he replied, his tone playful yet firm.

With a reluctant sigh, Harry turned his attention back to the stove, a grin still playing at the corners of his lips.

Chapter 13: I see fire

Chapter Text

Under the warm glow of the sun, Harry, Niall, and Liam found themselves on the lush green of the golf course, their attire crisply pressed and their clubs in hand. Desmond and Liam's father stood nearby, discussing business matters that loomed over the jovial atmosphere.

As they strolled along the fairway, Harry couldn't shake the weight of their purpose here. This outing, dressed up as a leisurely round of golf, was merely a façade for the real agenda—aligning forces against the queer community that Desmond deemed a threat.

"So, Liam, how's business?" Desmond inquired, his tone casual but his eyes sharp with intent.

Liam shifted uncomfortably, a bead of sweat forming on his brow under the oppressive gaze of his father and Harry's. "It's going well, sir," he replied, his voice tinged with apprehension.

Desmond nodded, though his expression remained inscrutable. "Good to hear," he remarked, though there was an underlying tension in his voice that couldn't be ignored.

Niall, ever the mediator, attempted to lighten the mood with a joke. "You know, Harry here has been working on his swing," he quipped, nudging Harry playfully.

Harry managed a weak smile, though his mind was elsewhere, preoccupied with the weight of their mission and the implications of their actions.

"Well, golf is a great way to unwind, isn't it?" Liam’s father remarked, a forced smile gracing his lips.

Harry nodded in agreement, though the gesture felt hollow against the backdrop of their ulterior motives.

As Niall seamlessly integrated into lively conversations with fellow golfers, Harry and Liam found themselves lingering behind, their strides measured and hesitant, the weight of unspoken tensions hanging heavy between them. Harry's uncertainty about his friendship with Liam, coupled with the lingering aftermath of his tumultuous encounter with Louis, left him feeling adrift, unsure of where he stood with the enigmatic man beside him.

Clearing his throat, Harry spoke in a hushed tone, his words heavy with the weight of his inner turmoil. "Listen, I know...I know things are difficult. But you have to know, I’m not...I don’t want to do this."

Liam sighed, his gaze fixed on Niall as if they were still engaged in a normal conversation. "How long are you going to do this, Harry?"

Taken aback by Liam's directness, Harry set his golf club down on the grass, leaning on it for support. "What do you mean?"

"I’ve known you since you were eighteen. I know who you are," Liam stated firmly, his words cutting through the tension like a knife. "And I know it's not easy to figure this out, but you're not a little boy anymore. It's your life. Your choices."

Harry's brow furrowed in confusion, his mind reeling with the weight of Liam's words. "But, I-"

Liam's gaze softened with understanding, his own struggles with self-acceptance reflecting in his eyes. "Harry, it's okay to be different," he reassured, his voice filled with unwavering support. "I know what it's like to feel like you don't belong, to feel like you have to hide who you truly are."

Surprised by Liam's admission, Harry's eyes widened in recognition. "You do?" he asked incredulously, the realisation dawning that he wasn't alone in his struggles.

Liam nodded solemnly, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips as he shared his own journey of self-discovery. "Yeah, I do," he confessed, his voice tinged with a quiet resolve. "I was in your shoes once. Still am, in some ways. My father is still trying to find me a wife. And I'm a policeman, so... There are things I can't escape. But I refuse to let him dictate my every move."

As Harry absorbed Liam's words, a surge of empathy washed over him, his own struggles mirrored in Liam's revelations. "Do you think it's worth it? Sacrificing your life for the sake of money and societal expectations?" he questioned, his voice laced with uncertainty.

"I'm not doing it for money," Harry retorted defensively, his sense of self-worth stinging at the implication.

"Then why? What are you afraid of?" Liam pressed gently, his gaze unwavering as he sought to unravel Harry's inner turmoil. "Do you think that as soon as you have kids with her, your dad is going to pat you on the head and tell you he's proud? He's never going to be satisfied, Harry. He's always going to push you."

Silence enveloped them as Harry's gaze drifted toward his father's distant figure, the weight of familial expectations pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket. "Are you...like Zayn?" he ventured tentatively, his voice barely above a whisper.

Meeting Harry's gaze head-on, Liam's expression softened with a mix of vulnerability and resolve. "What do you mean?" he asked cautiously, his tone guarded yet open.

Harry swallowed hard, the weight of his confession heavy on his tongue. "Are you...queer?" he asked, the words hanging heavy in the air, pregnant with unspoken truths.

Liam's guard faltered, his eyes reflecting a vulnerability that mirrored Harry's own. "Yeah, I am," he admitted quietly, his voice steady but tinged with a hint of apprehension. "And Zayn...he's one of the few people who's really understood that about me."

Intrigued by Liam's revelation, Harry's curiosity bubbled to the surface. "So, are you two...together?" he inquired cautiously, his voice barely a whisper.

Liam's laughter rang out, genuine and tinged with bitterness, as he shook his head in amusem*nt. "No," he replied, his tone laced with a bittersweet resignation. "Zayn is a free spirit. No one can tell him what to do. He's...difficult to deal with."

"But...does he love you?" Harry pressed, his heart aching with empathy for Liam's plight.

Liam's laughter softened into a wistful smile, his gaze turning inward as he contemplated the complexities of his relationship with Zayn. "I don't know," he admitted quietly, his voice tinged with a hint of longing. "He hates my job, my family, what I represent...everything."

A small smile tugged at Harry's lips, a shared understanding passing between them. "He hates me too," he confessed ruefully, his voice tinged with resignation. Clearing his throat, Harry spoke in a hushed tone, his words heavy with the weight of his inner turmoil. "Hey, Liam, can I ask you something?"

Liam glanced at Harry, his brow furrowed with curiosity. "Of course, mate. What's on your mind?"

Harry hesitated, his thoughts swirling as he tried to find the right words. "It's about Louis," he began tentatively, his voice barely above a whisper. "I was just wondering...what's going on between him and Cillian? Are they...seeing each other?"

Liam's expression tightened slightly, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features before he masked it with a forced smile. "Why do you ask?" he countered, his tone guarded.

Harry shifted uncomfortably, the weight of Liam's scrutiny bearing down on him. "I don't know, I guess I'm just curious," he replied evasively, his gaze fixed on the ground beneath his feet.

Liam sighed softly, his frustration tempered by an understanding of Harry's predicament. "Look, Harry, I get that you're curious, but...you're married," he reminded gently, his voice tinged with reproach. "You can't exactly be jealous if Louis is spending time with someone else."

Harry's cheeks flushed with embarrassment, a pang of guilt gnawing at his conscience. "I know, I know," he muttered sheepishly, his gaze flickering with uncertainty. "I just...I don't know, I guess I'm just worried about him."

Liam's expression softened, his gaze filled with empathy as he placed a reassuring hand on Harry's shoulder. "I get it, mate. Louis is a good friend, and we all want what's best for him," he acknowledged, his voice filled with quiet understanding. "But Cillian...he's not exactly the best influence."

Harry's brow furrowed in confusion, his curiosity piqued by Liam's cryptic words. "What do you mean?"

Liam sighed heavily, his gaze darkening with concern as he glanced back at the group of golfers in the distance. "Cillian can be...rude, controlling, even manipulative," he admitted reluctantly, his voice laced with unease. "I've seen the way he treats Louis, and it's not right."

A knot formed in Harry's stomach, his concern for Louis deepening as he absorbed Liam's words. "So, you don't think they should be together?" he ventured tentatively, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

Liam hesitated, his gaze clouded with indecision as he wrestled with his conflicting emotions. "I don't know, Harry," he confessed, his voice heavy with regret. "All I know is that Louis deserves someone who treats him with respect, someone who makes him happy."

Silence stretched between them, the weight of their conversation lingering in the air like a silent promise of solidarity amidst the uncertainty of their futures. With a look toward their fathers, Harry rolled his shoulders and stopped Liam as he tried to walk away.

“My dad is on Zayn.’’ Harry's words spilled out in a rush, a mix of panic and guilt knotting his stomach. “The pub. He wants to investigate it, and close it if he finds out it’s.. What it is. That’s why we’re here today.”

Liam's reaction was immediate and intense, his eyes widening in shock as he processed the gravity of Harry's revelation. "And you're telling me that now?!" His voice was a harsh whisper, laced with frustration and anger as he forcefully pulled Harry's hand away from his arm. "Bloody hell, Harry!"

Harry winced at Liam's reaction, the weight of his own indecision heavy on his shoulders as he struggled to find the right words to explain himself. "I'm sorry," he blurted out, his voice thick with regret. "I didn't know what to do! I don't know what to do..."

“That’s why we can’t trust you! You only think about yourself.’’ He spat as he walked away toward Niall.

As Harry drove home, the weight of Liam's words bore down on him like an oppressive cloud. The memory of Liam's disappointed and shocked expression lingered in his mind, haunting him with a sense of guilt and self-doubt. Was he truly selfish, as Liam had accused him of being?

Harry's grip tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white with the force of his grip. He couldn't shake the nagging feeling that he had let Liam down, that his actions had somehow betrayed their friendship. But deep down, he knew that he had been acting out of fear, out of a desperate need to protect himself and the people he loved.

Lost in his thoughts, Harry found himself stuck in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Was he selfish for being caught between two lives, unable to choose a side? Was he selfish for trying to keep his own secrets buried, for clinging to the fragile illusion of normalcy that his marriage provided?

The questions swirled around in his mind, each one more tormenting than the last. His brain throbbed with the weight of his negative thoughts, his chest constricting with the suffocating pressure of his own doubts and fears.

With a heavy heart, Harry pressed down harshly on the gas pedal, the car lurching forward with sudden speed. Tears threatened to spill from his eyes, blurring his vision as he raced towards the safety of home, desperate to escape the relentless onslaught of his own inner turmoil.

As Harry stepped through the front door, the warmth of home enveloped him, and he found Camille waiting for him in the entryway, her smile radiant as she helped him out of his jacket. She greeted him with a kiss on the mouth, her excitement palpable as she led him into the living room.

Camille was dressed in a sleek, form-fitting dress, the fabric hugging her curves in all the right places. Her blonde hair was styled elegantly, framing her face in soft waves. Harry couldn't help but admire her beauty, even as his mind raced with apprehension about the evening ahead.

"Harry, darling, you won't believe what I've planned for tonight," Camille exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. "I've arranged a double date with us, Louis, and Eleanor. Isn't it exciting?"

Harry's heart sank at the mention of Louis' name, his stomach twisting with anxiety. He forced a smile onto his lips, masking the turmoil brewing beneath the surface. "That sounds lovely, Camille," he replied, his voice strained but cheerful. "I'm sure Eleanor will be thrilled to see Louis again."

Camille beamed at him, her enthusiasm contagious as she chatted about how nervous Eleanor was to see Louis after all these years. Harry listened with a growing sense of dread, the weight of the evening's impending awkwardness settling heavily on his shoulders. As Camille continued to talk, Harry's mind wandered, his thoughts consumed by the impossible situation he found himself in. He felt suffocated by the pressure to maintain appearances, to play the role of the dutiful husband while concealing the truth about his true desires.

With a heavy sigh, Harry forced himself to push aside his inner turmoil, plastering on a facade of normalcy for Camille's sake. "I'll freshen up and get ready," he said with a forced smile, slipping away from Camille's side and retreating to the sanctuary of the bathroom.

The sleek black cab pulled up in front of the elegant restaurant, the soft glow of the evening lights casting a warm ambiance over the bustling street. Harry's heart raced with anticipation as he stepped out onto the pavement, Camille's hand tucked into the crook of his arm.

As Harry's gaze swept over the crowd gathered outside the restaurant, his eyes locked onto a familiar figure standing at the entrance. Louis stood tall and confident, impeccably dressed in a sharp suit that accentuated his lean frame. His hair was styled to perfection, chiselled jawline freshly shaved, and his piercing blue eyes sparkled with warmth and familiarity.

For a moment, Harry felt as though time stood still, the worries and anxieties that had plagued him all evening melting away in the presence of Louis. As Louis approached, a smile tugged at the corners of his lips, a silent greeting that spoke volumes in its intimacy.

Harry's breath caught in his throat as Louis stepped forward, extinguishing his cigarette with a flick of his heel before turning his full attention to Harry. Their eyes met in a shared moment of understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken connection that bound them together.

In that moment, Harry almost forgot about Camille, so lost was he in the magnetic pull of Louis' gaze. It was as though the rest of the world faded into the background, leaving only the two of them standing in the glow of the streetlights, a world of possibilities stretching out before them. But with a gentle reminder from Camille, Harry snapped back to reality, tearing his gaze away from Louis to assist her out of the cab.

As Louis approached, his demeanour exuded charm and grace, his eyes alight with genuine warmth as he greeted Camille. "Camille, you look absolutely stunning tonight," he said with a smile, his voice smooth and velvety. "That dress suits you perfectly, and your hair is simply divine."

Camille's cheeks flushed with pleasure at the compliment, her smile radiant as she thanked Louis. "Thank you, Louis," she replied, her voice tinged with genuine appreciation. "It's so wonderful to see you again."

Turning his attention to Harry, Louis extended his hand in a gesture of friendly greeting, their eyes locking in a charged moment that spoke volumes of the desire simmering beneath the surface. "Harry," Louis said, his voice low and husky, a flicker of intensity dancing in his gaze. "It's been too long."

Harry swallowed hard, the intensity of Louis' gaze sending a shiver down his spine as their hands met in a firm handshake. "Yes, it has," he replied, his voice tinged with a mixture of excitement and apprehension.

Before the moment could linger any longer, another cab pulled up in front of the restaurant, and Louis stepped forward to assist Eleanor out of the car. With practised ease, he extended his hand to her, his gentlemanly demeanour evident as he greeted her with a warm smile.

"Hello, darling.” Louis said, his voice sincere as he complimented her appearance. "That colour suits you perfectly."

Eleanor's cheeks flushed with a delicate blush at the compliment, her smile shy but genuine as she thanked Louis. "Thank you, Louis," she replied, her voice soft and demure.

As they made their way towards the entrance of the restaurant, Harry couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy at the easy rapport between Louis and Eleanor. But as he stole a glance at Louis, he couldn't deny the magnetic pull between them, a connection that transcended mere friendship and ignited a fire of desire deep within his soul.

And when they stepped inside, Eleanor first, Harry held the door open for Louis, a small smile playing on his lips as he caught Louis' eye.

"Thank you," Louis murmured, a hint of warmth in his voice that sent a shiver down Harry's spine.

"It's my pleasure," Harry replied, his heart skipping a beat as their fingers brushed briefly.

It was a fleeting moment, but in that brief exchange, Harry felt a rush of warmth flood his chest, the silent understanding between them speaking volumes. Without even noticing it, he entered first, leaving Camille outside, letting her open the door for herself.

But either way, she led the way to their table, her excitement palpable.

The restaurant exuded an aura of sophistication, with plush velvet curtains framing the windows and soft, dim lighting casting a romantic glow over the tables. A jazz band played in the corner, their smooth melodies drifting through the air and adding to the ambiance of the evening.

"Isn't this place divine?" Camille exclaimed, her eyes shining with excitement. "I've been dying to try it!"

Harry nodded along absentmindedly, his attention drifting back to Louis, who walked beside him with an easy grace that never failed to captivate him.

Eleanor, on the other hand, seemed determined to monopolise Louis' attention, her conversation bordering on flirtatious as she regaled him with stories of her recent travels. Harry couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy as he watched Louis nod politely, his eyes alight with interest at Eleanor's anecdotes.

"Honey, look," Camille nudged Harry, breaking his reverie. "They have carrot cake!"

"Oh, yeah, lovely," Harry replied absentmindedly, his attention still fixated on Louis.

"And then we went to Paris," Eleanor continued, her voice filled with excitement. "The city of love, they call it!"

Louis nodded politely, his lips curving into a smile. "Sounds like quite the adventure," he remarked, stealing a glance at Harry. "Camille, aren’t you French?"

Camille looked up from her menu, surprised by the question. "Only half. From my mom's side."

"Ah, that’s why you have this lovely accent," Louis said with a bright smile.

Harry couldn't help but marvel at Louis' effortless charm, even as he recognized the subtle ways Louis was altering his behaviour to fit the situation. It was impressive, yet it also stirred a hint of jealousy within him.

As they resumed perusing the menu, Eleanor leaned in closer to Louis, her attempts at flirtation becoming more blatant by the minute. She laughed a little too loudly at his jokes, her touch lingering a little too long on his arm as she reached for her glass of wine. Despite it all, Louis maintained his composure, offering her a polite smile while keeping his attention on her.

"Did you really say that to him?" Eleanor chuckled, covering her mouth.

"Of course I did," Louis replied confidently. "He was a twat with me, and it’s not because he is eighteen that I should let them disrespect me."

Camille set her menu down, her curiosity piqued. "By the way, Louis, what is it that you teach again?"

"English Literature," Louis replied.

Harry seized the opportunity to engage Louis in conversation, hoping to steer the focus away from Eleanor's flirtatious advances. "Oh, tell her about Oscar Wilde," he prompted, eager to hear Louis' insights.

Louis shifted in his seat, bringing his elbow on the table as he started to speak. Harry found himself drawn into Louis' conversation as he spoke with such passion and eloquence, his words painting vivid pictures of the literary world he inhabited. Harry listened intently, hanging on every word, his heart swelling with pride for the man sitting in front of him, almost forgetting about his wife right next to him.

You know, I've always been fascinated by literature," Eleanor said, her voice tinged with coyness. "Maybe you could recommend some books sometime?"

Louis chuckled, a polite smile gracing his lips. "Of course, I'd be happy to," he replied, though his gaze kept drifting back to Harry.

Without being able to help it, Harry rolled his eyes, taking a big sip of wine as he looked away.

Despite the veneer of normalcy, Harry felt a surge of excitement coursing through him as he sensed Louis's subtle flirtation beneath the table. The gentle graze of Louis's foot against his leg sent shivers down his spine, igniting a fire of desire within him. With a discreet spread of his legs, Harry leaned further into his chair, allowing Louis's foot to trail upward along his thigh. He concealed his elation behind the rim of his wine glass, his lips curving into a secret smile.

Engrossed in their conversation, Louis initiated a topic that captured the attention of both young women, allowing Harry and Louis a moment of intimate connection beneath the table. Their eyes met, and Harry's hand disappeared under the tablecloth in a casual gesture. His fingers sought out Louis's ankle, lightly caressing the skin above his sock. Louis's eyes flicked to Harry's face, catching his gaze through thick lashes as he prepared to take a bite of his food. Undeterred, Louis continued eating as if nothing had transpired, stealing glances towards Eleanor and offering polite smiles and nods.

"Oh, Harry is an amazing cook," Louis remarked with a smile, finally turning his gaze to Harry. "The roast he made me was top tier. Proper English."

Camille's voice broke through Harry's reverie, pulling him back into the conversation. "Oh," she said, a hint of jealousy creeping into her tone. "I didn't know he cooked for you."

Harry felt a pang of guilt at Camille's words, a reminder of the tangled web of deceit that surrounded their relationship. But as he met Louis' gaze across the table, a silent understanding passed between them, a shared secret that bound them together in ways Camille and Eleanor could never understand.

Savouring the electrifying sensation of Louis's foot pressing against his crotch, Harry finally decided to break away. "I'm going for a smoke," he declared, gently pushing Louis's foot away and pushing his chair back. "Could you order the desserts?" he asked Camille with a charming smile, to which she nodded eagerly, her eyes filled with adoration.

"Let me join you," Louis interjected, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin and finishing the last drops of wine in his glass before rising from his seat.

As they stepped out of the fancy diner, the cool evening air enveloped Harry and Louis, the din of the bustling street fading into the background as they made their way to a secluded alley nearby. The dimly lit alley, lined with dumpsters against the wall, offered a semblance of privacy amidst the chaos of the city.

Harry reached into his pocket, retrieving the silver box containing his cigarettes, his movements slow and deliberate. As he turned around to face Louis, their eyes met, and the world seemed to freeze around them once more. The ambient sounds faded into silence, leaving only the steady rhythm of their hearts echoing in the empty space.

In a bold and uncharacteristic gesture, Harry closed the distance between them in two swift strides, his hands finding their way to Louis's face as he captured his lips in a fervent kiss. Louis responded eagerly, his own hands gripping Harry's biceps as their kiss intensified, tongues clashing and bodies pressing against each other with unrestrained passion.

Breathless and flushed, Harry pulled away, his lips swollen and his chest heaving with exertion. "I want you," he breathed out, his voice husky with desire, his wine-laden breath mingling with Louis's.

"Harry," Louis whispered, his eyes still closed and his fingers digging into Harry's shoulders. "We can't," he protested weakly, though the desire in his voice betrayed his words.

Harry let out another desperate moan, a mix of longing and frustration contorting his features. His eyebrows furrowed as he continued to breathe heavily, his gaze locked with Louis's. "Later," he insisted, nipping at Louis's lips in a show of longing. "I'll come downstairs, I'll be in the car. You just have to wait for me."

Louis searched Harry's eyes, a tumult of arousal and uncertainty swirling within him. After a moment's hesitation, he nodded in agreement, silently acknowledging the unspoken promise between them.

As they reluctantly pulled away from each other, a playful smirk danced on Harry's lips, contrasting with the intensity of the moment they had just shared. "Caught you off guard there, didn't I?" he teased, his eyes sparkling mischievously.

Louis chuckled softly, his cheeks flushed with a mixture of surprise and amusem*nt. "Just a bit," he admitted, his tone laced with laughter. "But I can't say I'm complaining."

They leaned against the cool brick wall of the alley, the faint glow of the streetlights casting a soft illumination around them. Harry lit his cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his features as he took a long drag, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the crisp night air.

Louis followed suit, taking a drag of his own cigarette and blowing out a stream of smoke with practised ease. "So, what was that all about?" he asked, arching an eyebrow inquisitively.

Harry shrugged nonchalantly, a playful glint in his eyes. "You started it,"

Louis laughed, shaking his head in amusem*nt. "Oh no, I’m deeply sorry." he remarked, a fondness evident in his voice as he shot Harry a playful grin. “Maybe I shouldn’t have.”

They bantered and flirted effortlessly, the tension from before replaced by a sense of camaraderie and mutual understanding. With one last shared smile, they stubbed out their cigarettes and made their way back to the restaurant, ready to rejoin Eleanor and Camille with renewed spirits and a shared secret between them.

Restlessness gnawed at Harry's insides like a persistent itch, refusing to let him find solace even in the comfort of his own bed. He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, the weight of the evening's events heavy on his mind. Camille slept peacefully beside him, her soft breathing a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within him.

Unable to bear the suffocating stillness of the room any longer, Harry slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb Camille as he made his way to the bathroom. He changed into comfortable clothes, the fabric a welcome relief against his skin, before quietly slipping out of the apartment.

The night air was cool and crisp as Harry stepped outside, the chill sending a shiver down his spine. He took a deep breath, the scent of the city mingling with the faint aroma of freshly fallen rain. The streets were deserted, the city asleep beneath the watchful gaze of the moon.

As he drove through the empty streets, his mind wandered back to Louis, the memory of their shared moment at dinner lingering in the recesses of his mind. He found himself drawn to Louis' building, the pull of their connection irresistible despite the late hour.

He parked the car a short distance away, hesitant to draw attention to himself as he peered up at Louis' window. The lights were still on, casting a warm glow against the darkness of the night. Harry watched, his heart pounding in his chest, as the lights flickered and then went out.

For a moment, he hesitated, uncertainty gnawing at his resolve. But before he could second-guess himself, the passenger door flew open, startling him out of his thoughts. Louis emerged from the building, his figure illuminated by the soft glow of the streetlights.

"Harry!" Louis called out in a hushed whisper, a mischievous grin playing at the corners of his lips. "It's two in the morning!"

Harry felt a surge of adrenaline course through him as he fumbled for the door handle, his hands shaking with nervous energy. "Sorry!" he whispered back, his heart racing as he pressed on the gas pedal, leaving the road behind them in a blur of motion.

As the car came to a halt in front of the dense forest that bordered the nearby park, rain began to patter against the windshield, creating a soothing backdrop to the silence that enveloped them. The moon hung high in the sky, casting its ethereal glow over the surrounding landscape, illuminating the darkness with its soft, silvery light.

They sat in the car, the atmosphere heavy with unspoken words, the window cracked open just enough to let in the cool night air. Their seats reclined, they shared a comfortable silence, the only sound the gentle rhythm of raindrops on the glass.

Despite the late hour and the deserted surroundings, Harry's heart raced with anticipation, the thrill of their clandestine meeting sending a rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He couldn't shake the feeling of excitement, of doing something forbidden and reckless, like a teenager sneaking out to meet a forbidden lover.

Turning to look at Louis, bathed in the moon's soft glow, Harry felt a surge of emotion wash over him. The way the light played across his features, highlighting the curve of his cheekbones and the intensity of his gaze, left Harry breathless with longing. He watched as Louis exhaled a plume of smoke, the faint scent of tobacco lingering in the air as he flicked the cigarette butt out the window with practised ease.

Lost in the moment, Harry's hand found its way to Louis' cheek, his touch gentle against the stubble that lined his jaw. Louis turned to him, a lazy smile playing at the corners of his lips, his eyes heavy-lidded with a mixture of desire and affection.

"What?" Louis murmured, his voice husky with emotion.

Harry was momentarily speechless, his heart pounding in his chest as he gazed into Louis' eyes, each glance feeling like a lifeline in the darkness. Unable to find the words to express the depth of his feelings, Harry simply continued to stare, his thumb tracing a soft path along Louis' chin, his gaze dropping to linger on his parted lips.

His fingertips trailed along the smooth, freshly shaven skin just beneath Louis' parted lips, acutely aware of the intensity of Louis' gaze fixed upon him. With a flick of his eyes, Harry met Louis' blue irises, swallowing hard around the sudden rush of arousal and uncertainty that flooded his senses. Yet, in the privacy of the car, hidden from view with only the moon as a silent witness, Harry felt emboldened, liberated.

Slowly, but with growing confidence, he moved his thumb upward, pressing gently against Louis' lower lip before tracing its contours from left to right, his attention completely ensnared by the sight before him and the way Louis yielded beneath his touch. With a hint of curiosity, he shifted his thumb upward, applying a bit more pressure against Louis' upper lip, observing its subtle movements under his touch. Lowering it once more to press against Louis' lower lip, this time with a firmer touch, Harry watched with hooded eyes as Louis' tongue darted out in response, flicking out for a tantalising lick.

A surge of desire pulsed through his veins, his stomach tightening with the warmth pooling in his belly as he unconsciously licked his own lips. His breath hitched in his throat as he extended his palm toward Louis' mouth, feeling the warmth of Louis' tongue as it grazed and lapped against his skin, each caress sending shivers down his spine and quickening his breath.

Louis took hold of his wrist, trailing slow kisses upward along his palm, lavishing each finger with a teasing lick, his fiery gaze never wavering from Harry's own, even as Harry's focus remained fixated on Louis' mouth. Pausing as he reached Harry's ring finger, Louis hesitated, casting a glance filled with apprehension in Harry's direction. Yet, before Harry could respond, Louis' tongue darted out, tracing a path around the golden band adorning Harry's finger before enveloping the digit in his mouth, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from Harry as he arched in his seat, his breath catching in his throat.

Maintaining an unwavering gaze, a silent exchange between them, Louis took Harry’s ring finger into his mouth. The car was filled with a charged silence, broken only by the soft, wet sounds of Louis sucking on the finger. Harry's lips parted, a silent moan escaping as his eyes fixated on Louis' mouth, where his finger danced in the heat.

When Louis released the digit, he didn’t take the ring away from him, he left it here, full of his own warmth and spit, the cold air making the sensation even more obvious for Harry.

Louis leaned closer to him, then, one of his hands going at the back of Harry’s neck, the other going on his thigh, caressing the thin fabric of his trousers, leaving kisses at the side of his neck. He playfully took Harry’s lobe between his teeth, and let his tongue slide in his ear, making Harry close his eyes on a groan.

“My tongue still remembers the way you taste.” Louis whispered at the same moment he chose to open Harry’s zipper and button, sliding his hand inside his trousers, feeling the thick bulge in his underwear. “No one taste better than you,’’

And then, he leaned further down, enveloping Harry’s co*ck in the wet heat of his mouth. There was no teasing, no kitten licks, nothing to prepare Harry to hit Louis’ throat in the first go.

“Oh, god,” He moaned, loud enough for them to feel like the walls of the car were trembling, his head slamming against the headrest as he arch his back, spreading his legs a bit more, letting his fingers tangle in Louis’ hair. “Jesus,’’

With Louis’ position, his two knees on his seat, leaning forward with his head between Harry’s legs, it was too much of an opportunity for him not to touch. His free hand slid down Louis back, caressing the skin that showed up as Louis’ loose shirt was lifted from his movement. He easily slid his hand in Louis’ trousers, his eyes drifting to where Louis’ bum was lifted in the air, a small smile on his lips.

As he caressed the soft skin of Louis’ bum under his underwear, he closed his eyes and let himself bask in the pleasure blooming in his belly, unabashedly moaning and panting, his hand sometime pressing a bit on Louis’ head to keep him here, just an instant, releasing in Louis’ broken moans.

“Yeah,’’ He moaned again, overwhelmed, as Louis’ tongue pressed on his slit, ‘’Louis, I’m-’’

He felt his co*ck slip out of Louis’ mouth, too lost in his lust to comprehend how, in seconds, he ended up with a half naked Louis on top of him, straddling his thighs. As Louis gripped his face to kiss him roughly, Harry whined when he could taste himself on his tongue, his hands having a mind of their own as they slowly undid Louis’ trousers, pulling them down just enough to be able to let his co*ck graze between his cheeks.

“I don’t know what you are doing to me,’’ Louis whispered against his mouth, hips rolling and ass grinding on Harry’s wet length. ‘’But I can’t stop myself when I’m with you.’’

Taking control of the situation, feeling like he was about to combust if he didn’t do anything, Harry reached between them to grab himself and place the tip of his co*ck right at Louis’ entrance. Their mouths opened against each other in silent moan, faces contorted with grimace of pleasure when Louis slowly sank down on him.

“Each of my thoughts about you are improper.” Harry grunted when Louis was fully seated on him, both of them waiting for him to get used to the burn and the intrusion, their bodies already shaking.

With a bite on Harry’s jaw, Louis reached out behind his head to grip at the seat, slowly raising up and down, both of their moans mingling together. ‘’Do you think of me when you f*ck her ?’’ He asked, breathless already. “Do you want to call my name when she’s making you come ?’’

Harry felt himself going crazy, his entire body consumed by his lust, blood boiling in his veins as he gripped Louis’ ass in his hands and helped him with his movement, thrusting his hips to meet him halfway, the drag of his co*ck perfect in Louis’ heat.

“Yes,’’ He moaned, watching with captivation how Louis’ face would change with the pleasure coursing in his body, their mouths touching and their breath so heavy they fogged up the windows of the car. “Yes, all the time,’’ He moaned again, ‘’All the bloody time,”

“But it’s better with me,’’ Louis said, “It’s always going to be better with me, because I was the first.’’ He said, his own voice shaking and cracking with his moan, hips moving at a crazy pace, the car trembling under them,

“God, so good,’’ Harry whimpered, his fingers digging into the meat of Louis’ ass, probably leaving little crescent shape marks in the skin, ‘’So good,’’

“Hmhm,’’ Louis moaned, licking at Harry’s lips, biting at it as he kept his pace, his own moan growing louder, closer to each other, ‘’So so good,’’

The next kiss was bruising, both of them not giving each other time to breathe as they pressed and pushed their tongues together, their movements going erratic, uncontrolled, dictated by their hunger for each other. Louis gasped against his mouth, his arms leaving the seat to wrap around Harry’s neck, his body arching, ‘’Right there,’’ He murmured, out of breath, tilting his head back, ‘’Right there, yeah,’’ He said, letting Harry bite at the skin of his neck, marking it with a red bruise. ‘’Harry,’’

‘’God I want you all the time,’’ Harry said as he wrapped his arms around Louis’ thin waist, thrusting harder and deeper, moving Louis’ on him the way he wanted, realishing in his screams and moans, admiring the length of his throat as he kept his head tilted back, ‘’Every minutes of everyday.’’

“f*ck. f*ck!” Louis almost screamed out in the confine of the car, one of his hands leaving the headrest to slam against the window, brows furrowed as he kept slamming himself down on Harry. “Yes!” Shivering and eyes wet with the force of the pleasure, his body twitched relentlessly, eyes rolling in the back of his head as he came.

“You’re f*cking amazing.’’ Harry groaned against the skin of his neck, forcing Louis down on him twice before he felt his co*ck throbbing, the first spurt of his release making him whimper, ‘’f*cking everything.’’

Shaking and twitching, chests heaving and clinging into each other, small moans still escape them as they slowly come down from their high. Harry forced himself to blink multiple times, the white spots in his vision slowly fading away, his head turning to search Louis’ gaze hidden in his neck.

Bringing their forehead together, their mouths inches apart, Louis caressed Harry’s face with his hands, eyes earnest and once again lost into his. They stared at each other as they held, basking in their own peace and warmth, forgetting for a moment about the world outside.

Harry slipped quietly into the house, his steps light. The air was heavy with the lingering scent of Louis on his clothes, a bittersweet reminder of the passion they had shared in the early hours of the morning.

As he settled onto the sofa, Harry felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him, his mind swirling with conflicting emotions. The touch of Louis still burned on his skin, a tangible reminder of the forbidden desire that coursed through his veins. With a heavy sigh, Harry stared blankly at a point on the wall, his thoughts consumed by the daunting task that lay ahead. He knew he couldn't continue living this double life, torn between duty and desire, between the expectations of his father and the longing of his heart.

But the prospect of confronting his father filled him with a sense of dread, the fear of rejection and disapproval gnawing at his insides. How could he possibly stand up to the man who had controlled every aspect of his life since childhood?

Chapter 14: Confess

Chapter Text

Harry sat at the breakfast table, his mind a million miles away as Camille chatted about the day's plans. He picked at his food absently, the taste of the eggs and toast bland and unappealing.

“Harry, are you listening to me?”

Harry's attention snapped back to the present, blinking at her as he swallowed around the food in his mouth. He struggled to muster up the enthusiasm he knew he should feel, but he managed a smile.

“Do you know what day it is today ?” She asked.

"Hum.."

“It’s the day we first met. I still remember it. You looked so handsome, I almost couldn’t speak to you, I was so nervous.”

He chuckled, his eyes drifting down as he took a large sip of his coffee.

But Camille reached across the table, her hand coming to rest gently on his arm. "It feels like just yesterday, doesn't it?" she said, her eyes shining with nostalgia.

Harry forced a smile, the effort feeling foreign and strained. "Yeah, it does," he replied, his words lacking conviction.

Camille leaned in closer, her lips brushing against his cheek in a soft kiss. "I was thinking we could celebrate tonight," she said, her tone hopeful.

Harry felt a surge of panic rise within him at the thought of spending an evening pretending to be happy when he felt anything but. He wanted to scream, to run far away from this suffocating reality that seemed to be closing in on him from all sides. But instead, he nodded, his response coming out as a barely audible murmur. "Sure, sounds good," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Camille beamed at him, her excitement palpable. "Great! I'll make reservations at that new Italian place downtown," she said, her eyes shining with anticipation.

As she bustled around the kitchen, Harry felt a sense of detachment wash over him, as if he were watching the scene play out from a distance. He wanted to reach out, to tell Camille the truth, but the words caught in his throat, suffocated by the weight of his own fear and uncertainty.

With a heavy heart, Harry retreated to his office, the weight of his own inner turmoil pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket. He couldn't face the world today, couldn't face his father and the expectations he placed upon him.

The restaurant exuded an air of refined elegance, its dimly lit interior adorned with intricate chandeliers and plush velvet curtains. Soft jazz music floated through the air, mingling with the clinking of silverware and the murmur of diners engaged in quiet conversation.

As they settled into their seats, Camille's eyes sparkled with excitement as she leaned in closer to Harry, her voice filled with anticipation.

"Harry, darling, isn't this place simply divine?" she exclaimed, gesturing around the restaurant with an eager smile. "I thought it would be the perfect spot to celebrate our anniversary."

Harry managed a faint smile in response, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of Louis and the weight of the secrets he carried. He nodded absentmindedly as Camille continued to speak, her words washing over him in a blur.

"I've been thinking," Camille said, her voice tinged with excitement, "perhaps it's time for us to start looking for a new house. Somewhere with more space, maybe even a garden. What do you think?"

Harry's heart sank at the mention of moving house, his mind flashing back to the home he shared with Louis in their secret moments together. He struggled to focus on Camille's words, his thoughts consumed by the memories he couldn't escape.

"Um, yes, that sounds...nice," Harry replied, his voice distant as he forced himself to engage in the conversation. “But this house belonged to my family for ages. I don’t think my father would be too happy with the idea.”

Camille reached across the table, her hand coming to rest on top of Harry's as she squeezed it gently. "Maybe he would be if the reason behind it was a baby…" she said as she bit her lips, her voice filled with excitement. "All my friends are pregnant, and I can't help but feel a bit left out."

Harry's heart sank at the mention of children, his mind reeling at the thought of bringing a child into a world built on lies and deceit. He struggled to find the words to respond, the weight of his own inner turmoil threatening to suffocate him.

"I..." he began, his voice faltering as he searched for the right words. "I'm not sure if now is the right time for us to be thinking about...that."

Camille's expression fell, disappointment flickering in her eyes. "But Harry, I thought we talked about this," she said, her voice tinged with hurt. "I thought we both wanted a family."

Harry looked down at his hands, his heart heavy with guilt and shame. How could he explain to Camille the true depths of his feelings, the weight of the secrets he carried with him every day?

"I know, I know," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "I just… I mean you know, with work and-’’

“But you can’t always hide behind work. We have enough money to afford a child, even two. I mean this is the point, no ? We got married, moved in together. That’s the next step. I don’t understand.’’ She sighed, leaving his hand in order to sit back on her chair and cross her arms on her chest, pouting.

He looked around to be sure no one witnessed or heard anything, shyly raising his hand to call the waiter in and order one more bottle of wine, feeling like only a bit of liquor could tame his nerves. And as he gazed into her eyes, he couldn't help but feel a sense of despair wash over him. In that moment, he felt more alone than ever, trapped in a life that was never meant to be his own.

"I...I just need some time to think," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's nothing, really. It’s just something that always scares me. It’s not you.’’

Camille studied him for a moment, her expression softening with understanding. "Darling, I’m here. You don’t have to be afraid." she said, her tone gentle and reassuring. "Take all the time you need. I'm here for you, no matter what."

As Camille reached for his hand once more, Harry couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt gnawing at him from within. He placed his hand in hers and looked as their fingers intertwined, watching her ring flicker under the candle.

And during the entire dinner, as he entertained her and kept trying to involve himself into conversations, making her laugh and drinking more than necessary, he couldn't shake the feeling of guilt that weighed heavy on his chest. He ran a hand through his hair as he watched her order them dessert, feeling his own thoughts consume him.

On one hand, he felt a deep affection for Camille, a genuine desire to protect her from any pain or hurt. She was kind, caring, and undeserving of the turmoil that churned within him.

But on the other hand, he couldn't ignore the undeniable truth that lingered in the depths of his soul. He was living a lie, trapped in a marriage that was built on the expectations of others rather than the desires of his own heart. And with each passing day, the guilt of deceiving Camille grew heavier, suffocating him with its relentless grip.

He turned his head away from her, watching out the window as the people walking around, the cars, and the bicycles, trying to push away the memories of Louis that taunted him at every turn. The warmth of Louis' touch, the softness of his lips, the way his laughter echoed in the recesses of his mind. Harry couldn't help but feel like a traitor for even allowing himself to entertain such thoughts, for daring to imagine a life that existed beyond the confines of his marriage.

But try as he might, he couldn't ignore the undeniable pull he felt towards Louis, the magnetic force that drew him in like a moth to a flame. And with each stolen moment they shared, Harry couldn't help but feel like he was betraying Camille, like he was betraying himself.

After dinner, Camille was a bit tipsy from the wine Harry had ordered to distract himself from thoughts of Louis. Harry helped her out of the restaurant, amused by her louder-than-usual laughter, a departure from her usual poised demeanour.

As they waited for a cab on the sidewalk, Harry held Camille with an arm around her waist to prevent her from swaying on her heels. But probably fuelled by the liquor in her system, she turned, linking her arms around his neck and initiating a surprisingly passionate kiss on his lips. Harry was taken aback by her boldness, his mind reeling with confusion.

Before Harry could respond, a familiar voice cut through the air, jolting him out of his daze.

"Are you going in the taxi or are you going to kiss your lady for another ten minutes?"

Startled, Harry pulled away from Camille, his lips tingling from her kiss. He licked his lips nervously, tasting the lingering trace of her lipstick. When he turned, his heart skipped a beat.

There stood Cillian, immaculately dressed in a long black coat and expensive suit, his icy blue eyes boring into Harry with disdain. Beside him stood Louis, his jaw clenched in tension, his presence sending a wave of heat through Harry's body.

Harry's mind raced with questions, his gaze searching Louis's face for answers. How long had Louis been there? What had he witnessed? And why was he with Cillian again?

Before Harry could find the words to speak, Camille's voice broke through the tension.

"Oh, hello there," She laughed, "I'm so embarrassed. You can go first, guys. I need some fresh air."

With a smirk, Cillian ushered Louis into the waiting taxi, his hand resting possessively on Louis's back. Without a word, Louis entered the car, leaving Harry standing on the sidewalk, his heart heavy with uncertainty and regret.

"What a lovely evening, don't you think?"

Harry forced a smile, his mind elsewhere as he numbly raised his arm for the next cab, opening the door for his wife and helping her inside.

"Yes, lovely."

As Harry prepared for Eleanor's birthday party, the weight of impending confrontation with Louis pressed heavily on his mind. Memories of the way Louis had looked at him when he caught Harry and Camille kissing flooded back, the sting of being ignored cutting deep. With each passing moment, Harry felt the walls of his sanity closing in, the fear of being caught in the tangled web of his secret life gnawing at him.

Despite his inner turmoil, Harry went through his pre-party routine with practised precision. He shaved meticulously, the razor gliding smoothly over his skin, and applied aftershave and cologne with deliberate care. Slipping into his most distinguished suit, a dark navy blue ensemble, he fastened his crisp white shirt, leaving the first button undone for a touch of casual elegance. When his gaze fell upon his cross necklace in the mirror, a symbol of the expectations he couldn't escape, he felt a surge of frustration and hastily removed it, leaving it discarded next to the sink.

The sound of his heels echoed on the wooden floor as he waited for Camille downstairs, his eyes flitting nervously to his watch. When she finally descended the stairs, adorned in a matching blue dress with perfect pink lipstick and wavy hair, Harry's guilt resurfaced with renewed intensity. He couldn't shake the feeling that Camille deserved true love and happiness, and a pang of regret pierced his heart as he wondered if he could have been the one to provide it if circ*mstances had been different.

In the car, as they navigated through the affluent neighbourhood where Eleanor's family resided, Harry couldn't help but drum his fingers anxiously on the steering wheel. The anticipation of encountering Louis loomed over him like a dark cloud, casting a shadow over the evening ahead.

"Oh, you know," Camille's voice broke through the tense silence as she touched up her lipstick in the rearview mirror. "I went to have tea with Eleanor last week, after our double date." Harry winced inwardly at the reminder, imagining Louis's presence beside her instead of his wife. "She's in love," Camille chuckled. "Did Louis tell you anything about her?"

Harry's throat tightened at the mention of Louis's name, his mind swirling with a mixture of longing and dread. "No," he replied quietly, his voice strained. "He didn't mention anything."

The diner was a nightmare.

The luxurious halls of Eleanor's family estate shimmered with elegance and opulence, a testament to the family's esteemed status in society. As the evening unfolded, Harry found himself navigating the intricate social dynamics with growing discomfort.

Louis's deliberate avoidance weighed heavily on Harry, each passing moment amplifying the ache of longing in his chest. Despite Harry's subtle attempts to catch his eye, Louis remained steadfastly focused on Eleanor, lavishing her with attention and affection.

Camille's indulgence in alcohol heightened her clinginess, her insistent demands for Harry's attention becoming increasingly difficult to navigate. Harry found a modicum of relief in the presence of his sister, Gemma, whose pregnancy became the centrepiece of conversation, diverting attention away from Harry's own strained circ*mstances.

Gemma cradled her burgeoning belly with maternal pride, a serene smile gracing her lips as she engaged in conversation with Camille. "I'm halfway through it, it's going to be a summer baby," she said, her voice filled with warmth and anticipation.

Camille's eyes lit up with admiration as she leaned in, her excitement palpable. "Oh, how lucky you are," she cooed, her hand drifting affectionately to Harry's cheek. "I can't wait to have a mini Harry of my own. I can't even imagine how cute it will be."

Harry forced a smile in response, his discomfort mounting at the thought of fatherhood with Camille, especially in light of Louis's subtle reaction to the topic. He stole a glance at Louis, noting the subtle tension in his posture, a silent echo of Harry's own conflicted emotions.

As the evening progressed, they gathered in the lavish living room for Eleanor's birthday cake, her mother's adoration for Louis evident in every lingering glance and attentive gesture.

"Come on, I want a picture of you two," Eleanor's mother insisted, brandishing her camera as she motioned for Louis and Eleanor to pose by the fireplace.

"Give us a kiss!" Eleanor's brother chimed in, prompting Harry to clench his jaw in frustration.

With a forced smile, Louis complied, wrapping his arm around Eleanor's slender waist and pressing a kiss to her lips as the camera captured the moment for posterity.

"Thank you, Louis, dear," Eleanor's mother gushed, her eyes twinkling with admiration.

Louis's gaze flickered briefly toward Harry, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes before he turned back to Eleanor, his attention fully absorbed by her radiant smile.

Harry's heart sank as he looked away, the ache of unrequited longing gnawing at his insides, a silent plea echoing in his mind for a moment alone with Louis, away from the suffocating room.

Harry sought solace from the stifling atmosphere indoors and slipped out onto the patio, craving the cool embrace of the night air. Unbeknownst to him, Louis had also sought a moment of respite outside, and their paths collided amidst the shadows. His breath caught in his throat as he realised he was not alone, his heart quickening at the sight of Louis's silhouette against the moonlit sky. The air between them crackled with tension, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken truths that lingered between them.

A heavy silence settled between them, broken only by the distant sounds of the party echoing from inside. Harry struggled to contain the flood of emotions threatening to spill over, his heart pounding in his chest.

Finally, unable to bear the weight of their unspoken tensions any longer, Harry spoke, his words tinged with a mix of jealousy and possessiveness. "You didn’t have to kiss her.”

Louis's gaze hardened, his jaw tensing at the mention of Eleanor's name. "Maybe I wanted to," he retorted sharply.

Harry swallowed hard, his chest tightening with a surge of jealousy. "You’re lying," he shot back, his voice raw with emotion. "I know you did it because of what you saw."

Louis threw his cigarette on the ground and finally turned to face him. ‘’And what did I see?’’ he asked with annoyance, his demeanour unsettled. ‘’Why are you like this, Harry?’’

Harry's heart sank at the truth of Louis's words, the weight of his own guilt pressing down on him like a lead weight. "I didn't mean for it to happen," he protested, his voice tinged with desperation. "But you know how complicated things are with us."

Louis's expression darkened, his eyes flashing with a mix of hurt and anger. "You never mean anything," he accused, his voice tinged with resignation. "It’s never your fault, it’s never your choices. Aren’t you tired of being a hollow shell? A shadow? Is that what your life is going to look like?’’

Without being able to control it, Harry felt his lower lip quiver under the threat of tears. Tears that he had been holding back for weeks. He tipped his head back, looking at the moon, trying to prevent them from dropping down his cheeks. He heard Louis sigh again, the sound of feet shuffling on the wood. He didn’t dare to look, not wanting to see Louis leaving him in silence again.

‘’It’s not.. I think we should stop.’’

After Louis's words hang heavily in the air, a thick tension envelops them, suffocating in its intensity. Harry's heart feels like it's been dragged through gravel, torn between the ache of losing Louis and the suffocating weight of his marriage to Camille.

He finally summoned the courage to turn and face Louis, the moonlight casting shadows across his anguished expression. "Stop?" Harry repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. "What do you mean, stop?"

Louis met his gaze, his own eyes reflecting a mixture of pain and resignation. "I mean this... us," he said softly, his voice barely audible over the distant hum of the party inside. "It's not fair, for everyone involved."

Harry felt his chest tighten with each word, a knot of fear and desperation coiling in the pit of his stomach. "But... but I can't," he stammered, the words catching in his throat. "I'm married, Louis. I can't just... walk away."

Louis's expression hardened, the hurt in his eyes transforming into a steely resolve. "You can't keep using that as an excuse, Harry," he said firmly, frustration lacing his words. "We both deserve more than this... sneaking around, than living a lie."

The weight of Louis's words bore down on Harry like a ton of bricks, the truth of them echoing in the depths of his soul. He knew Louis was right, knew that they couldn’t keep living this way, but the thought of facing the truth, of confronting the reality of his marriage, filled him with a bone-deep dread.

"I don't know what to do," Harry admitted, his voice barely a whisper, his heart breaking with the weight of his own indecision. “But I don’t want to do it without you.’’

Louis turned away this time, pinching his lips as the moon illuminated his shiny eyes, shaking his head in despair and gulping heavily. When he looked back at Harry, the multitudes of emotions in his eyes and the fondness and softness of the way he was looking at him made Harry's lips part.

He approached him, reaching for Harry’s hand, his thumb rubbing circle on his wedding ring. “We were built on borrowed time.’’

Harry could only stare, his own eyes filling with tears. He took one step, afraid that Louis would run away or pull away, but when he didn’t, Harry reached shyly for his chin, taking it between his forefinger and thumb.

He was about to lean in when behind them, the sound of the door startled them both. They turned at the same time, only to discover Gemma, watching them with wide eyes as she held a bottle of wine, her mouth wide open.

Louis cleared his throat and grazed a palm on his mouth, looking one last time at Harry before pushing past her with urgency and disappearing.

The night settled over the city, casting shadows across the room as Harry sat in front of the television. The amber glow from his glass of whisky flickered in the dim light, casting a warm hue on the worn-out pages of the book resting on his lap. He willed his mind to focus on anything else except his conversation with Louis, still not able to comprehend if it had meant it was the end of them. His mind felt fuzzy with all the alcohol he had indulged in when he had come back from the patio, trying his best to not look toward Louis until everyone had eventually left.

Camille, adorned in a delicate nightgown, entered the room, her eyes glinting with a subtle desire. She approached Harry with a gentle smile, her fingers tracing the rim of his glass. "Harry, darling, why don't you put that book down for a moment? I've been thinking, and I believe tonight could be special."

Harry looked up, his expression guarded but curious. "Special?"

She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss on his cheek, her perfume mingling with the scent of whisky. "Yes, special. I've been thinking about today. Tonight could be the night we take that step."

"I had a lot to drink, I don’t-"

She perched herself on the armrest of his chair, a delicate hand petting the nape of his neck. "But it can be, Harry. We're married, and it's the next logical step. We could have a beautiful family together."

Harry took a sip of his whisky, his eyes staring straight ahead for the wall. "I've told you before. I'm not ready for this. I have my work, and there's so much I need to focus on."

She moved closer, settling on his lap, discarding the book, her fingers trailing along his jawline. "But think about it, Harry. A family, our family. It's what we should be doing."

He had to close his eyes, his heart pounding in his chest as she started to kiss his neck, her fingers tangling his hair. His grip on the armchair was so tight it was bordering on painful for him.

Her hand slid down his arm, her touch lingering on his wrist. "Don’t you want me ?’’ She whispered next to his ear, her hand travelling back on his arms and up to his chest. He forced himself to let it happen, swallowing through the lump in his throat and willing his heart to slow down. But when her hands slid further down and laid on his crotch, he jolted and almost pushed her down on the floor.

She looked at him, tears welling in her eyes and he stood there, panting and blinking through the tears forming on his own.

“I-’’ He shook his head and simply made his way to the front door.

‘’Harry!’’ She called after him, running behind in the corridor as he hastily took his coat and his car keys, swinging the door open.

That night, Harry drowned his sorrows in the solitude of five different pubs, each one rejecting him as he stumbled through the dark alleys, his face numb and his body swaying with the weight of his thoughts. Unwillingly and unconsciously, he knocked on the heavy wooden door, whisky smelling hiccups. The seconds felt like an eternity as he swayed, waiting for a response. The door creaked open, revealing Niall with a mixture of concern and surprise etched across his face.

"Harry?" Niall's voice held a touch of worry, and he took in the dishevelled state of his friend.

Harry's eyes, glazed and bloodshot, met Niall's. A sudden surge of emotion overwhelmed him, and without warning, he crumbled. The facade he had worn all night shattered, and tears streamed down his cheeks.

"Niall, I can't..." Harry's words were choked, his voice breaking as he struggled to articulate the thoughts that had haunted him all evening.

Niall didn't need further explanation. He stepped aside, inviting Harry into the warmth of his home. As the door closed behind them, the raw vulnerability in Harry's eyes was palpable. Niall guided him to the living room, urging him to sit and collect himself.

But the tears showed no sign of stopping. It was as if each drop carried the weight of the burdens Harry had been carrying. Niall, feeling a deep empathy for his friend, sat beside him, offering a silent presence.

"Hey, it's okay," Niall whispered, his hand gently resting on Harry's back.

After a moment, Harry's sobs began to subside. Niall helped him to his feet, supporting him as they made their way upstairs. The ascent seemed longer than usual, each step a testament to the emotional weight Harry carried. In the dim light of Niall's bedroom, Gently, Niall guided Harry to the bed, his limbs like lead, and his movements sluggish. He carefully placed him on the mattress, watching as Harry's eyes struggled to focus on the surroundings. Niall began the process of undressing him, peeling off his shoes, then his socks, and finally, his jacket.

Niall patted Harry's shoulder gently, offering a reassuring presence. "You're safe here, Harry. Take your time."

As Harry sat there, his head in his hands, eyes clenched shut, it felt as though his entire life was flashing before his eyes. He saw himself as a young boy, desperately seeking his father's approval with every good grade earned. He glimpsed himself at fourteen, recalling the moment he first felt a stirring of desire, stolen glances exchanged with a close friend during changing time at school. Then, he witnessed the pivotal moment when he followed Nicholas blindly into Oxford, stepping into a party where his gaze collided with Louis's amidst the swirling chaos of the crowd.

With a heavy sigh, Harry let his hand fall from his face, the weight of alcohol and emotional turmoil numbing his senses. And then, in a moment of raw vulnerability, he blurted out.

"I'm gay."

Niall's hand paused momentarily in the air at Harry's words, a subtle shift in the rhythm of his comforting gestures. His gaze softened, reflecting understanding and compassion as he processed Harry's confession. With a sigh, Niall spoke, his voice gentle yet tinged with uncertainty.

"It's not... It's not a bad thing," Niall began, his words slow and measured. "Honestly, I kind of had a feeling, and, well, I've known about Louis for a while now." He paused, running a hand through his hair, searching for the right words. "I don't know exactly what to say, mate. Nothing I can say will fix everything, but I want you to know that I'm here. This doesn't change anything between us."

Harry turned to look at Niall, his eyes wide with surprise and gratitude, the weight of his secret lifting ever so slightly. A shaky breath escaped him as he processed Niall's words, a sense of relief washing over him.

But as Harry's thoughts drifted to the daunting uncertainties of his future, his composure crumbled once more, tears welling in his eyes. "What am I going to do?" he choked out, his voice wavering with emotion.

Without hesitation, Niall enveloped Harry in a comforting embrace, pulling him close as he offered solace and support. Harry leaned into Niall's embrace, his tears flowing freely as he sought refuge in his friend's arms.

A soft knock at the door signalled Amelia's arrival, her eyes filled with concern as she entered the room with a steaming mug of tea. Niall motioned her closer, and without a word, she joined them, wrapping her arms around Harry from behind, cocooning him in warmth and understanding.

Chapter 15: Falling

Chapter Text

The passing week seemed to stretch on endlessly for Harry, each day devoid of any sign of Louis.

As the weight of his circ*mstances bore down on him, Harry found himself sinking deeper into a state of despair, his once bright outlook on the future dimming with each passing day. The pressure of living a double life, coupled with the pain of his recent fall out with Louis, weighed heavily on his shoulders, leaving him feeling lost and adrift. Sleep eluded him, his nights consumed by restless tossing and turning as his mind churned with worries and regrets. The weight of his burdens seemed to crush his appetite, leaving him with little desire for food, the taste of each bite bitter on his tongue.

Niall, ever the steadfast friend, refused to stand idly by as Harry suffered in silence. Recognizing the toll that Harry's struggles were taking on him, Niall made it his mission to be there for his friend in any way he could. After long days at work, Niall would whisk Harry away, insisting on taking him out for dinner or a drink, anything to provide a momentary distraction from his troubles. On weekends, Niall dragged Harry out to the golf course, the fresh air and exercise serving as a temporary reprieve from the suffocating weight of Harry's worries. Despite his initial reluctance, Harry found solace in the rhythm of the game, the repetitive motion of swinging the club helping to quiet the incessant chatter of his mind, if only for a fleeting moment.

Meanwhile, back at home, Camille grew increasingly frustrated with Harry's absence, her complaints falling on deaf ears as Harry struggled to muster the energy to pretend that everything was fine. He couldn't bring himself to fake it anymore, couldn't bear the thought of putting on a facade while his world crumbled around him.

Through it all, Niall remained a constant source of support and strength for Harry, offering a shoulder to lean on and a listening ear whenever he needed it most.

The atmosphere in the kingdom grew increasingly volatile, with tensions boiling over into late-night clashes on the streets. Drunken mobs lashed out at innocent men perceived as "too gay," fueling Harry's fears for himself and those he cared about. Rising tensions within the city, one man arrested, falsely accused of felony and aggression on officers, served as a stark reminder of the power dynamics at play. Despite his father's efforts to secure the man's release, Harry knew the truth was being manipulated to suit their agenda.

He worried for Louis, for Liam, for Zayn, and for all those who found themselves targeted by the growing hostility.

Harry hesitated for a moment outside the Old Dog and Partridge, his heart pounding with a mixture of nerves and determination. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the confrontation ahead, hoping that perhaps, in the process, he could mend fences with Zayn and repair their strained relationship.

Pushing open the door, Harry stepped into the dimly lit pub, the familiar scent of beer and cigarettes filling his nostrils. The place was empty, save for the soft hum of background music. He made his way to the bar, his footsteps echoing in the silence. As Harry stood behind the bar, contemplating his next move, he heard a noise from behind him. Curiosity piqued, he turned around and pushed open the double doors leading to the back of the pub, expecting to find Zayn preparing for the day.

Instead, what he stumbled upon left him speechless. Zayn was pressed against the wall, his hands gripping the edge of a table, while Liam stood close behind him.

"sh*t-"

"Oh god, Jesus, I'm sorry!" Harry blurted out, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment as he quickly averted his gaze and closed the door behind him.

Minutes after, as Harry nervously smoked inside the pub, the sound of a slamming door made him jump in his stool. Liam appeared first, running a hand through his dishevelled hair, his wide eyes signalling for Harry to be prepared for what was coming.

Following him was a furious-eyed Zayn, his cheeks flushed and his denim pants still unbuttoned.

“Get the f*ck out of here!” Zayn spat without preamble.

Harry stood from his stool, hands raised as he looked between Liam and Zayn. "I don't understand! What did I do?" He protested, desperation evident in his voice.

Zayn's gaze bore into him, filled with a mixture of disdain and frustration. "You know what I despise the most about you?" he spat, his words cutting through the air like a knife. "You waltz in here, acting like you belong, like you're one of us. But your family name is the reason people like me end up in jail! Get out of here, now. Don't make me tell you again."

Harry looked to Liam, eyes searching for an explanation. "You told him?" he questioned.

But before Liam could respond, Zayn jabbed a finger into Harry's chest. "Yes, he told me. He told me right away. And what did you do? You waited for weeks!"

Harry was exhausted from being treated this way. Puffing out his chest and standing straighter, he walked closer to Zayn, bringing them forehead to forehead. "Listen to me. You haven't been nice to me once in f*cking five years. I am nice enough to come here and tell you when they are going to come and search this bloody place. So the least you could do is be f*cking grateful."

Silence stretched between them, heavy and thick, Harry and Zayn locked in a deadly stare-down, Liam standing before them, shocked and mouth agape.

Zayn's jaw clenched, his eyes flashing with anger as he glared at Harry. "I don't need your help," he snapped, his tone laced with bitterness.

Harry took a step closer, his resolve unwavering. "Maybe not," he conceded, "but you need to stop pretending like I'm the enemy here. The truth is, you're just angry because Louis chose me over you."

Zayn's ears turned crimson, his frustration evident as he struggled to maintain his composure. "And you're so sure about that?" he challenged, closing the distance between them until they were practically nose to nose.

Harry held his ground, meeting Zayn's intense gaze without flinching. "I'm damn sure," he replied, his voice firm and unwavering. "You've always resented me for it. But let's face it, Zayn. Louis chose me because I’m not always acting like I know everything about everyone."

Zayn's nostrils flared, his anger palpable in the charged atmosphere between them. "You don't know a thing about me," he growled, his voice low and menacing.

Harry didn't back down, his resolve solidifying with each passing moment. "I know enough to see that you're consumed by bitterness and envy," he shot back, his tone cutting through the tension like a knife. "But you know what? I pity you, Zayn. I really do. Because you're too blinded by your own insecurities to see what's right in front of you."

Zayn's jaw clenched tighter, his fists balling at his sides as he fought to control his rising temper. "It’s funny coming from a spoiled kid who is afraid to be himself," he spat, his voice dripping with contempt.

The silence that followed was deafening, each word hanging heavy in the air between them as they stood locked in a battle of wills. But the sound of slow hand clapping broke the tension, and they turned to look at the entrance of the pub.

"Well, well, well," Louis said, his voice raspier than usual. His cheeks were flushed, and his demeanour seemed off. "What a great display of virility."

The tension in the room seemed to thicken as Louis's unexpected arrival disrupted the standoff between Harry and Zayn. Liam's confusion was palpable, his brow furrowing as he glanced between the three men.

“Lou? What are you doing here?” Liam asked, his voice tinged with surprise.

“Are you f*cking high?” Zayn snapped, his irritation evident as he glared at Louis.

Louis responded with a carefree giggle, his hand delicately covering his mouth as he rolled his eyes. “Look at my protectors. So romantic,” he remarked, his tone dripping with sarcasm. He sauntered further into the pub, shrugging off his long coat to reveal a short, bright red top that left little to the imagination. “I came bearing gifts!” he exclaimed, his demeanour oddly cheerful despite the tense atmosphere.

Zayn's expression darkened further at Louis's arrival, his frustration evident as he watched Cillian follow closely behind. Cillian's appearance only added to the tension in the room, his disdainful gaze fixed on Harry as he acknowledged the others with a curt nod.

Harry felt a surge of discomfort at Cillian's presence, his unease growing as he braced himself for whatever confrontation might follow. It seemed that Louis's unexpected arrival had only served to escalate the tension, leaving Harry feeling increasingly isolated and on edge.

The atmosphere in the pub grew increasingly tense as Louis's behaviour became more erratic. Harry watched with growing concern as Louis danced provocatively with everyone in the room, his movements fluid and uninhibited. The sight of Louis's exposed belly, accentuated by the crop top he was wearing, only added to the surrealness of the situation.

Louis seemed to be in his own world, oblivious to the concerned glances exchanged between Zayn, Liam, and Harry. He danced with a reckless abandon, his laughter ringing out above the music as he moved from one person to the next.

Meanwhile, Cillian remained at the bar, his eyes fixed on Louis with a predatory intensity that made Zayn bristle with irritation. Liam shot Harry a worried glance, silently communicating his concern about Louis's behaviour.

As the night wore on, Louis's drinking only seemed to escalate, and Harry couldn't shake the feeling of unease that settled in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to reach out to Louis, to pull him away from the chaos and make sure he was okay. But he also knew that Louis wouldn't welcome his interference, especially not in his current state.

Instead, Harry watched helplessly from across the room, his heart heavy with worry as Louis spiralled further into whatever darkness consumed him. He knew that he couldn't force Louis to stop, but he also couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. And as Cillian's gaze lingered on Louis with a hunger that sent shivers down Harry's spine, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to hold himself for too long.

"No," Zayn said coldly.

Louis stood behind the bar, wrapping his arms around Zayn from behind as he reached for a bottle of gin. "Come on, babe. Just a sip," he coaxed.

"Louis, no," Zayn repeated firmly.

Undeterred, Louis continued to cling to Zayn's back, his weight seemingly inconsequential as Zayn moved about, attending to customers as if everything were normal.

"What's going on today?" Harry asked, his brow furrowing as he observed the scene from his seat at a small table with Liam.

"I don't know, mate," Liam replied with a sigh. "But I really don't like Cillian. I mean, look at how he's been eyeing Louis. And he never used to come here."

"How long have they been..." Harry began, trailing off.

"I'm not sure," Liam admitted. "Probably around a year or so, maybe more. I don't get why Louis puts up with him. He's old, mean, and boring."

Harry chuckled wryly and took a sip of his drink.

"Oh, f*ck," Liam muttered, his expression shifting as he prepared to stand.

"What?" Harry asked, concern evident in his voice.

"Zayn's going to lose it again," Liam replied grimly.

Zayn grabbed Louis by the arm and pulled him away from behind the bar, guiding him towards the entrance of the pub. He swiftly retrieved Louis' coat and shoved it into his chest.

"I don't want you here. Not in this state. I'm taking you home," Zayn stated firmly.

Liam and Harry rushed after them, their eyes wide as they watched the tense exchange. Louis, in a defiant gesture, threw his coat on the floor.

"Who are you to tell me what to do?" Louis retorted, his voice slurred with intoxication.

Zayn stood his ground, his jaw set as he faced the row of coats, his frustration evident. Slowly, he turned to Louis, his tongue grazing the inside of his cheek with annoyance. "What did you say?"

"I'm f*cking tired of all of you always treating me like I don't know what I'm doing," Louis snapped back.

"Just let's go home," Zayn insisted, bending down to retrieve Louis' coat.

"No! No, f*ck that. I'm not going home. I don't give a sh*t, I'm not," Louis protested vehemently.

"Louis," Liam interjected, attempting to calm the situation.

"What is wrong with all of you? You can all have your moments, you can all break down and drink until oblivion, cry and f*cking lose it all, and when it's me, it's a f*cking affair?" Louis exclaimed, his voice cracking with emotion.

Harry stood there, his heart sinking as he watched tears well up in Louis' drunken eyes. Unable to bear the sight of Louis in such pain, he took a tentative step forward, his hand reaching out to touch Louis' shoulder in a gesture of comfort. But before his fingers could make contact, Louis recoiled harshly, pushing Harry back with surprising force.

"No, not you," Louis spat, his voice laced with bitterness. "You don’t f*cking touch me."

Confusion and hurt flashed across Harry's face. "Louis, come on, you're drunk," he reasoned, attempting to keep his tone calm.

"And you are a coward," Louis shot back, his words sharp and accusatory.

"What?" Harry's voice cracked with disbelief. "Listen, we can talk about this outside, you—"

"You want to talk? You want to talk?" Louis interrupted, his frustration boiling over as he threw his coat on the floor once more, his arms raised in exasperation. "Let’s talk then."

Harry clenched his jaw, bracing himself for the onslaught of Louis' words. He knew this conversation would be painful, but he refused to back down, steeling himself for whatever accusations Louis hurled his way.

"You are a coward," Louis slurred, his voice tinged with bitterness. "You are the worst kind of man I could ever be interested in. Meeting you again was a mistake. Trusting you again was a mistake. In fact, I should have never even talked to you. You hide behind your marriage, behind your father's expectations, because you're too afraid to face who you really are. You think you're any better than your old man?" Louis continued, his voice rising with each word. "You're just like him, Harry. Just as afraid, just as trapped. You live a life of fear and comfort, and you are never going to be happy. You know what?" He leaned forward, pressing a finger to Harry’s chest. "You are not afraid of being gay. And you are not afraid of him. You are afraid of yourself. You are miserable."

Louis's words pierced through Harry's defences like a dagger, each accusation striking at the core of his being. The weight of them settled heavily on his shoulders, a burden he had long been carrying but had refused to acknowledge until now. And as he listened, helpless, defenceless, he felt the walls he had built around himself crumbling, exposing the raw vulnerability he had spent years trying to conceal. The truth of Louis's words resonated with him in a way that was both agonising and liberating, forcing him to confront the painful reality of his existence.

Surprising all of them, Cillian intervened. He suddenly appeared, pushing Harry with a shoulder like he hadn’t seen him. He took Louis’ coat from the ground and grabbed his forearm, forcefully taking him out of the pub, Harry's shock was palpable. He watched in stunned silence as Louis was ushered away, leaving behind a void that seemed to echo with the weight of their fractured relationship.

Zayn, Liam, and Harry stood there, frozen in disbelief, as they processed the sudden turn of events.

Liam's comforting pat on Harry's shoulder brought him back to the present moment, and Harry turned to look at his friend, his eyes still fixed on the spot where Louis had stood moments ago. The tears threatened to spill over, but Harry blinked them back, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat.

"Let's drink, yeah?"

Harry nodded slowly, the weight of the evening's events settling heavily on his shoulders. The silent agreement between them spoke volumes as they turned towards the bar, seeking solace in the familiar comfort of the pub.

Zayn moved behind the bar with a sense of purpose, retrieving three glasses and pouring a generous amount of amber liquid into each one. His expression was unreadable, a mixture of concern and understanding flickering in his eyes as he glanced at Harry.

It felt as though Louis's words had peeled back layers of denial that Harry had carefully constructed, exposing raw emotions he had long suppressed. While the truth stung, there was a strange sense of liberation in finally confronting his own fears and insecurities.

"I'm sorry," Harry murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm sorry for everything."

Liam's comforting hand on his shoulder offered a small measure of solace as Harry struggled to contain the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. "It's okay, mate," Liam said softly, offering a reassuring smile.

“I’m going to ask you questions, and I want you to be honest with me. I’ll know if you lie.’’

Zayn's sudden declaration of intent caught Harry off guard, his hands tightening around his glass as he prepared himself for what was to come. He nodded in agreement, a knot forming in his stomach as he braced himself for the interrogation.

“Do you love your wife?’’

Harry shook his head, his gaze fixed on the polished surface of the bar, unable to meet Zayn's probing stare.

“Do you think there is any way that you could break it off?’’

The question hung heavy in the air, the weight of Harry's guilt and uncertainty pressing down on him.

“The wedding. Everything.’’

“I-’’

“Do you love Louis?”

Harry's breath hitched at the question, his heart pounding in his chest as he grappled with his emotions. He glanced at Liam, who was watching him intently, before turning back to Zayn.

"I..." Harry's voice trailed off, his mind racing with conflicting thoughts and feelings. He had spent years denying his feelings for Louis, burying them deep within himself to avoid facing the truth. But now, with Louis's words echoing in his mind, he couldn't ignore the undeniable pull he felt towards him.

Zayn's expression softened, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes as he regarded Harry with newfound empathy. "Then you owe it to yourself, and to Louis, to do what makes you happy," he said gently. “And if you don’t go after him right now and throw this f*cking asshole out of his flat, I’ll do it myself.

Harry felt a weight lift off his shoulders at Zayn's words, a sense of relief flooding through him as he realised that he didn't have to continue living a lie. He glanced at Liam, who offered him a reassuring smile, before turning back to Zayn.

"Thank you," Harry said sincerely, his voice filled with gratitude as he got up off his stool, chugging down his drink in one go.

Zayn grimaced. “I still hate you.’’

Cillian forcefully ushered Louis into his flat, the door slamming shut behind them with a resounding thud. Louis stumbled slightly, caught off guard by the abruptness of Cillian's actions, but he straightened himself, his brow furrowed with a mixture of frustration and resignation.

"Embarrassing yourself in front of everyone for a man that doesn't deserve half of you," Cillian spat, his Irish accent laced with palpable frustration. "I told you, since the beginning, that this would happen. You never listen."

Cillian wasted no time in making himself at home, heading straight for Louis' alcohol cabinet and pouring himself a generous measure of liquor. Louis watched in silence, his mind still reeling from the events of the evening, his chest tight with unresolved emotions.

Lost in his thoughts, Louis barely registered Cillian's approach until the older man was standing directly in front of him, his hands grasping Louis' face and forcing him to meet his gaze. "I told you no one could be better for you than me, why don't you listen?" Cillian pleaded, his eyes flashing with a mix of frustration and concern. “And now you are all upset.”

With a pained grimace, Louis pulled away, sinking onto the sofa with a heavy sigh. He avoided Cillian's gaze, his mind swirling with conflicting emotions. "Of course I'm upset," he muttered, his voice tinged with bitterness. "I feel... I feel used."

Cillian settled onto the sofa beside him, his glass clutched tightly in his hand as he regarded Louis with a mixture of sympathy and frustration. "Listen, this kid is never going to be able to be with you," he said, his voice soft but firm. "And even if he was, he wouldn't be able to handle you."

“He is everything but mine.’’ Louis whispered.

“But I am yours.’’

Louis met Cillian's gaze, his desperation and pain evident in his eyes. He needed something to ease his mind, something to erase Harry's touch and presence from his soul. With a heavy heart, he swallowed hard, steeling himself for what came next.

"So what now?" Louis asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“So, let’s f*ck.’’

Heart pounding with determination, Harry stood outside Louis' door, his knuckles white against the wood as he prepared to knock. For too long, he had allowed fear and doubt to hold him back, but tonight was different. Tonight, he was ready to fight for what he truly wanted, consequences be damned. Summoning every ounce of courage, Harry rapped sharply on the door, the sound echoing in the quiet hallway. He waited with bated breath, the seconds stretching into eternity as he prayed for a response.

Finally, the door creaked open, revealing Cillian's stern face framed in the dim light of the hallway. His expression was unreadable, but Harry could sense the tension radiating from him.

"What do you want?" Cillian's voice was cold, guarded, as he blocked the doorway with his imposing frame.

Harry squared his shoulders, refusing to be intimidated. "I need to see Louis," he said firmly, his voice steady despite the nerves churning in his stomach. "It's important."

Cillian's gaze hardened, his jaw clenching with barely restrained anger. "Louis doesn't want to see you," he said, his tone final.

"I need to talk to him. It's about us."

Cillian stepped out, closing the door behind him and fixing Harry with a menacing glare. His voice dripped with venom as he spoke. "I don’t think you understood what happened here, so let me make it simple for you, kid," he spat. "Louis is not yours, and he never was. You may think you can do whatever you want with your family name and your good looks, but you’re worth nothing."

Harry bristled at Cillian's words, his fists clenched at his sides. "You don't know anything about me," he retorted, his voice tight with anger. "Louis and I have something real, something you'll never understand."

Cillian's lip curled in disdain. "Real? You call sneaking around behind your wife's back and playing games with Louis's heart real?" he scoffed. "You're just like every other entitled rich boy, thinking you can have whatever you want without consequence."

"You have no idea what you're talking about," he shot back, his voice rising. "Louis deserves better than you, better than me, better than all of this. But I'm not giving up on him, not now, not ever."

Cillian's expression darkened, his eyes narrowed into slits. "You're making a mistake," he warned, his tone low and dangerous. "Louis is better off without you, and if you know what's good for you, you'll stay away."

But Harry stood his ground, his resolve unwavering. "I'll take my chances," he said defiantly, his gaze locking with Cillian's. "Because Louis is worth fighting for, no matter what it takes."

The door creaked open, revealing Louis standing in the doorway, his eyes cast downward, avoiding both Harry and Cillian. Cillian remained planted before Harry, his gaze piercing and borderline psychotic, a smirk playing on his lips as Louis spoke.

"Cillian," Louis said quietly, his voice strained with emotion. The sight made Cillian smirk even wider, relishing in the discomfort he caused Harry. "I need you to leave."

Cillian's smirk faltered slightly at Louis's words, but he didn't move an inch. Instead, he squared his shoulders, his jaw set in defiance. "And why would I do that?" he challenged, his voice laced with arrogance.

Louis took a deep breath, mustering the courage to look up and meet Cillian's gaze. "Because I asked you to," he replied, his tone firm but tinged with sadness.

Harry watched the exchange, his heart heavy with dread. He could see the internal struggle written on Louis's face, the pain of having to confront both Cillian and himself weighing heavily on him.

Cillian's smirk morphed into a sneer, his demeanour growing more threatening by the second. "You don't get to tell me what to do," he spat, his voice dripping with malice.

But Louis remained resolute, his gaze unwavering. "I'm serious, Cillian," he insisted, his voice trembling slightly. "I need you to go."

Shifting from anger to desperation, Cillian grabbed at Louis’ arms, shaking him slightly. “You said I was everything to you. You are everything to me. Everything to me, do you hear me? Please, Lou. Please?”

For a moment, there was silence as the tension in the air crackled between them. Then, with a dramatic sigh and pulling Cillian’s wrist away by grabing him with the tip of his fingers, Louis grimaced, meeting Cillian’s gaze steady on. “You are pathetic.”

Freezing in disbelief. Cillian finally relented, pushing past Harry and bumping into his shoulder with force, making him stumble back a few steps as he disappeared.

The atmosphere within Louis' flat hung heavy like a suffocating fog, thick with unspoken words and the weight of unresolved emotions. Louis, his movements heavy with the burden of his heartache, poured another drink from the alcohol cabinet, each drop a desperate attempt to drown out the pain that gnawed at his soul. Harry, standing behind him, grappled with his own inner turmoil, steeling himself for the difficult conversation that lay ahead, hoping against hope that Louis would hear him out.

"I-" Harry began, his voice faltering as he struggled to find the right words to convey the depth of his feelings.

"You became like coffee," Louis interrupted, his tone laced with bitterness and longing, his back still turned to Harry. "Delicious, bitter, addictive. I convinced myself that one day you would wake up and choose me, leave her, leave them all behind. But then I see you with her, kissing her, holding her..."

Harry's heart clenched at the pain in Louis' voice, the rawness of his emotions tearing at his own soul. "You know I don't love her," he protested weakly, his words falling flat against the weight of Louis' accusations. “You know it’s just part of the-’’

"Of what?" Louis whirled around, his eyes ablaze with anger and hurt. "Of the game? Of the plan? And then what? What happens when she's pregnant? Because you f*ck her, right Harry? When you leave my house, or the car, you go back to her, and you f*ck her."

The words struck Harry like a physical blow, each one a painful reminder of the rift between them, of the compromises he had made to keep up appearances. Tears threatened to spill from his eyes, his defences crumbling under the weight of Louis' accusations. "But you... You have to understand, it's not... You don't understand," he stammered, his voice breaking with emotion.

Louis' expression softened momentarily, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features before he turned away once more, his walls firmly in place. "I understand more than you think, Harry," he said quietly, his voice heavy with resignation.

Harry's heart sank at Louis' words, the weight of his pain crashing down on him like a tidal wave. "Louis, please," he pleaded, taking a step closer to him. “Just let me t-’’

“Talk?!” Louis erupted, his voice laced with anger and hurt. ‘’All you do is bloody talk, Harry! You come here, you f*ck me, and you leave!’’

“It’s not true!” Harry yelled back, his voice tinged with desperation. ‘’I’m.. It’s not just about that, it’s more than sex!”

“Is it? Do you even know how I feel?” Louis' voice trembled as he spoke, his anger giving way to raw vulnerability. “Do you know what it feels like to know that you are with her? To watch you leave my bed and–’’ His words caught in his throat, his lips quivering as he struggled to contain his emotions. ‘’You can barely handle me talking to another man. What do you think I feel?”

Harry stood frozen, the weight of Louis' words crashing over him like a revelation. Suddenly, everything became painfully clear. His own fears and insecurities, his relentless pursuit of Louis – it had all blinded him to the truth that had been staring him in the face all along.

“I accepted to date Eleanor because it meant I could be closer to you. I accepted to- to share you, because it meant I could have you, even if only half of you,” Louis continued, his voice barely above a whisper as tears welled in his eyes. ‘’But I can't keep waiting for you to choose me. I need to choose myself."

As the weight of Louis' words settled over him, Harry felt the walls he had built around his heart begin to crumble. In that moment, he knew that he could no longer hide behind his fears and insecurities. If he wanted to salvage what little remained of his relationship with Louis, he would have to confront his own demons head-on and fight for the love he knew he couldn't live without.

“I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted any of that, Louis,” Harry's voice cracked with emotion, tears streaming down his face and pooling at his feet. ‘’I- I was just a boy. I saw you, and everything changed for me. I spent years searching, waiting for you. I went to f*cking America, and even there, I was looking for you in all of them!” He gestured wildly, his finger pointing towards the door. ‘’I feel you and see you everywhere. I’m not myself when you are not near!” He fought to keep his voice steady, his hands trembling with the intensity of his emotions. ‘’I have to wake up every day in this house, go to work, pretend, smile, fake it. And I hate it! I f*cking hate it, Louis!” He saw Louis startle at the rawness of his confession, but he couldn’t stop now. ‘’Do you think that if it was easy, I wouldn’t be here with you every day?! Do you think that if I could, I wouldn’t just give everything away?! Why can't you see it?!”

“Because I’m in love with you!” Louis screamed back, his voice thick with anguish and desperation. “And I’m dying inside every time you’re not with me! Knowing she’s touching you, holding you, and it’s not me! All I get are a few stolen hours! I’ll never know what it feels like to have dinner with you, to hold your hand outside! And it’s tearing me apart!” He wiped furiously at the tears streaming down his face, his breath ragged with emotion.

But Harry could barely comprehend the words, his mouth agape in shock and realisation. He stood there, his heart pounding in his chest, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, his mind racing.

For the first time in his life, Harry understood the meaning of lifes.

Love, a concept he had only encountered in the pages of novels and the scenes of movies, suddenly became real to him. He had heard Camille say it countless times, but it had always felt hollow, empty. His responses had been automatic, devoid of the depth and authenticity that now flooded his being.

In this moment, with Louis standing before him, pouring his heart out, Harry felt the weight of those words settle deep within him. Love wasn't just a word anymore; it was a tangible force, pulsating through every fibre of his being. The warmth and hope that filled Harry's soul were undeniable. It was as if a dormant part of him had suddenly awakened, flooding him with a sense of purpose and clarity he had never known before. In Louis' presence,

Harry found himself confronted with the raw, unfiltered truth of love, and it was both exhilarating and terrifying.

Bringing a trembling hand to his face, he wiped away his tears, his chin quivering uncontrollably as he struggled to compose himself. “Louis,” he whispered, his voice weak and heavy with emotion.

When Louis met his gaze, something shifted in his eyes, and his shoulders slumped ever so slightly. He remained still as Harry took one step closer, then another, until he was standing right in front of him. Timidly, and still trembling, Harry reached out, his knuckles brushing against Louis’ tear-stained cheek, his lips forming a sorrowful line.

"You were the first person I felt both wildly unsure and unwaveringly certain of," Harry confessed, his voice trembling with emotion. "That was the scariest part of knowing you. The fact that I had no idea what I was doing, but at the same time, I knew exactly why I had to." He gazed deeply into Louis' eyes, marvelling at their brightness and magnificence, wishing he could etch their image into his memory for eternity. "I never loved anyone else," he whispered, his breath catching in his throat.

Louis bit his lip and turned his head to the side, prompting Harry to gently cup his neck, his thumb tracing a tender path under Louis' ear. Their eyes met once more, and Harry continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "I have loved you since the day I saw you at that party. And I've never stopped."

As tears welled up in Louis' eyes and he closed them, Harry watched silently, his own heart overflowing with love and longing.

“I love you,’’ he declared again, his voice resonating with newfound confidence and determination.

Louis opened his eyes then, his beauty under the soft glow of the light momentarily taking Harry's breath away. Blinking away the tears in his own eyes, Harry felt Louis' hand gently come to rest on his arm. For a fleeting moment, he feared Louis might pull away, but instead, Louis' thumb traced a tender path along the skin of Harry's wrist.

“I don’t want to be a secret anymore, Harry,’’ Louis confessed, his voice tinged with vulnerability and longing.

“You won’t,’’ Harry assured him, his own voice trembling slightly with emotion. “You were right, I’m a coward,’’ he admitted, shaking his head. “I should have said something earlier. I don’t want to live this way. I don’t want to live with the idea of you not being with me. It’s not a life worth living.’’

Louis' eyebrows furrowed in a mixture of shock and touched disbelief, his breath brushing against Harry's chin.

‘’Promise me,’’ Louis implored, his other hand coming to rest on Harry's cheek. ‘’Promise me we will be together. Promise me you are mine.’’

Harry nodded, his smile growing as he met Louis' gaze with unwavering assurance. “I was always yours,’’ he affirmed softly.

In response, Louis let out a wet chuckle, tears glistening in his eyes as he leaned in, capturing Harry's lips in a tender kiss. As they parted, he whispered against Harry's lips, "We’ll talk tomorrow,’’ before suddenly pulling back with a slight panic. “I mean.. Do you- Can you stay?”

Instead of answering, Harry wordlessly made his way to the front door, effortlessly locking it before placing the silver key on top of the console. He then switched off the light in the living room and returned to Louis, their fingers intertwining as he gently guided them to the bedroom.

Chapter 16: Piece of my heart

Chapter Text

As Harry woke up in Louis' bed, the warmth of the sun kissed his skin, the gentle breeze from the open windows brushing against his face. The distant sounds of birds chirping and cars passing by filled the room, creating a tranquil morning ambiance.

He stretched his limbs lazily, relishing in the comfort of the soft sheets enveloping him. However, his contentment quickly turned to disappointment when he realised that the space next to him was cold and empty. Harry frowned, his heart sinking at the absence of Louis beside him. He reached out tentatively with his foot, hoping to find some trace of warmth or presence, but the bed remained desolate.

Just then, he heard the familiar sound of heels clicking against the hardwood floor, accompanied by the distinct scent of Louis' cologne. A small smile tugged at Harry's lips as he raised on his forearms and looked over his shoulder to see Louis emerge from the bathroom, impeccably dressed in a grey suit, his hair perfectly styled.

"Morning," Louis greeted, his smile illuminating the room as he made his way to his desk. "I need to stop by my classroom to pick up some essays to grade. But I'll be back in," he paused, glancing down at his wrist to check the time, his lips tugging into a thoughtful expression. "Less than two hours. I'll bring coffee," he promised before adjusting his glasses on his nose. "And then, we'll talk." With that, he exited the bedroom.

But Harry's sleep-addled brain and insatiable desire for Louis' presence refused to let him leave so easily. With a sudden burst of energy, he threw off the covers and hurriedly followed Louis out of the room, catching up to him just before he reached the entrance.

Slipping between Louis and the door, Harry pressed his back against the cool wood, effectively blocking Louis' path. He looked down at Louis with a smirk.

“Ha-” Louis attempted to protest, but Harry's lips silenced him, capturing his mouth in a fervent kiss. Louis melted against Harry, his body responding eagerly to Harry's touch as their passion ignited.

His words were lost amidst Harry's relentless kisses, his tongue intertwining with Louis', sending shivers down his spine. He whined then, tilting his head and letting Harry control him, feeling the warmth of his hands even over his clothes as Harry pulled him against his almost naked body.

"Mmm, Harry, I really should be-" Louis managed to murmur between kisses, his resolve weakening with each tender caress from Harry's hands.

Harry's determination was unwavering as he took the briefcase from Louis' grasp and set it on the console next to them, his lips trailing down Louis' neck as he whispered, "Just a little longer, darling."

“Work,’’ Louis mumbled in his mouth, even though he did nothing to pull away, sighing with pleasure when he felt the hot tongue under his ear. Harry's kisses were insistent, overwhelming his senses and rendering him almost dumb.. With each lick and bite, Louis felt himself melting into Harry's embrace, his resistance waning with every tender caress.

“Hmhm,’’ Harry nodded against his neck, obviously not really paying attention as he took his lips again, one hand coming up Louis’ chest to cup his neck and the other still firmly on his hip. He started walking then, forcing Louis to follow the rhythm and to walk backward as their kiss grew messy, sloppy.

When Louis’ nails grazed down Harry’s chest, he abandoned the idea to walk them toward the bedroom, or even the sofa and instead, pushed Louis against the central island of the kitchen, his hands wasting no time in shedding Louis' jacket, letting it fall at their feet.

“Harry, darling I- Oh my god,’’ He squeaked when Harry hauled him up and sat him on the island, laughing against his mouth in disbelief.

Harry’s hands kept groping at the meat of his thighs, which made him spreaded them a bit more in order to pull Harry closer and attached his mouth and teeth on Harry’s collarbone while his white shirt was almost ripped open. ‘’God, the way you look,’’ Harry groaned and tilted his head when Louis bit down on his skin, ‘’Drives me crazy,”

Louis pulled away suddenly, enough to be able to look at him and to attract Harry’s attention on his face.

He brought one hand to his own lips, licking his palm with the spit he had gathered in his mouth while his other hand was busy pulling on Harry’s underwear.

Harry’s eyes were unfocused as he stared, and his jaw went slack when Louis brought his spit slick palm to his co*ck, playing with the foreskin and watching the precome blurt out. They were both looking down at Louis’ hand, their breath mingling as they panted into each other’s mouth.

“I really don’t have time for this,’’ Louis breathed against Harry’s mouth, “So either you f*ck me quick and hard right here, or I’ll have to make you come.”

Without much gentleness, Harry pushed him backwards onto the table, forcing him to use his hands behind him for leverage. He quickly took care his tailored trousers, as well as his boxers, leaving Louis with only his open shirt

Reaching up to remove his glasses, Harry’s eyes opened wide.. "No," He said, taking Louis' wrist between his fingers and placing his hand firmly against the table. ''Leave them on.''

Louis only gave him a dirty smirk, revealing in the way Harry finally was comfortable enough to be able to be more controlling and demanding. He lifted one of his legs, slowly, biting his lip for added effect and holding back his smile when he saw how Harry's eyes were fixed on the movement. He placed the bend of his knee against Harry's shoulder, and tilted his head to the side. “Come on, babe. I can take it.’

However, he didn’t expect to see Harry lick three of his fingers in the most obscene way and bring them up his hole while his other hand clenched Louis’ thigh. He didn’t use his fingers, simply smudging his spit on and around, before he grabbed his own co*ck.

His head fell between his shoulders with a pleased sigh when Harry pressed in, the burn slightly uncomfortable but the warmth and the arousal making it delightful. “Yeah,’’ He heard Harry choke out, ‘’Yeah, you can take it,’’

Harry pulled him forward by his thighs, “Oh my-”, Louis ending up lying on his back on top of the island counter, both of his legs now on Harry's shoulders. “f*ck! Harry!” He moaned as his hips pressed back against Harry, pushing his co*ck deeper inside of him.

The pace was brutal. Harry’s hips slapped against him at every thrust, forcing his body up and down every time. He tried to grab onto the surface, but the sweat on his body and palms only left two vertical lines of his fingerprints. He made the mistake to look down where Harry’s fingers were digging into the skin of his hips, catching a glimpse of the way his muscles would clench and how veiny his hands looked. The sight made him moan in the most obscene way, but before he could be embarrassed, Harry moaned in answer, low and deep, perfect.

“I love the sounds you make when I f*ck you.” Harry gritted out, his unstyled hair falling over his face as pulled Louis once more against his hips, the new angle making him thrust deeper.

“God,” Louis raised himself on one hand, his other reaching down to his co*ck as he stroked himself in rhythm with Harry, his mouth opening wide in pleasure. “f*ck-” Harry grabbed the back of his neck, his hand covering all the skin there and simply held him like that, forcing their eyes to meet. “Harder, Harry. f*ck me—yes!“

His eyes rolled in the back of his head as he started shaking, not even able to keep stroking himself when Harry pressed continuously against his prostate. In his release, his hands slapped on the counter with force and his body arched, Harry letting him lay down once more on the cold surface. He heard the sound of something falling but didn’t have the mind nor the want to check for it.

“Me-’’ He tried to say, opening his white shirt a bit more to reveal his sweaty stomach, ‘’Come on me,’’

“f*ck yeah,’’ Harry pulled out almost immediately, stroking himself above Louis’ stomach, his hand still clutching his hip with force. The sound he made when he came, and the look on his face were definitely something Louis would have a hard time to not think about while at school.

Louis returned home from work, his briefcase in hand and two cups of coffee balanced precariously in the other, a pastry bag dangling between his teeth. As he pushed the door open, he half-expected to find the flat empty, the remnants of Harry's presence disappearing with the sun.

To his surprise and relief, he heard the hum of the vacuum cleaner and a familiar tune playing softly in the background. Warmth flooded through him as he spotted Harry, moving gracefully to the rhythm of The Beatles, a smile tugging at the corners of Louis' lips.

He leaned against the doorframe, watching Harry with adoration as he danced with the vacuum cleaner, his movements fluid and carefree. Harry spun around suddenly, catching sight of Louis standing there, and his cheeks flushed as he hurriedly switched off the vacuum.

"Oh, hi," Harry greeted, his eyes brightening at the sight of Louis.

Louis raised the cup and the pastry bag in the air, a grin spreading across his face. "Breakfast,"

Sitting on the sofa, Louis's legs draped over Harry's thighs, they indulged in bites of pastries, savouring the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. The late morning sunlight cast a warm glow around them, but the weight of their conversation hung heavy in the air.

“Can I ask you something?” Harry ventured, setting down his empty coffee cup.

Louis nodded, a mouthful of croissant momentarily silencing him as he brushed hair out of his eyes.

“How did you know?” Harry inquired, his fingers idly tracing patterns on Louis's ankle.

Louis paused, swallowing his food and wiping his mouth before responding. “You mean, how did I know I liked men?”

“No, I mean..what was the moment you truly.. understood it?"

“Well, I think I always knew,” Louis began. “At school, while all the boys were chasing after girls, I found myself drawn to them instead. Then, at my first party when I was sixteen, I met Zayn.”

Harry's brow furrowed with curiosity. “You've known him that long?”

He chuckled, ‘’Yeah,’’ He leaned on the back of the sofa, “And you saw Zayn right, so when I saw him I guess..’’

‘’You liked him.’’

Louis frowned. ‘’I mean, I think yeah, but I was young and easily impressed. And Zayn was the first person of colour I ever met. And he was smoking and all dressed in leather, he was different.”

“Did you and Zayn..’’

Louis sighed then, reaching for one of Harry’s hands. ‘’Zayn was my first.. Man. First, everything. But not only did he help me figure out who I was, he also taught me how to be who I was without being seen and noticed.’’ Harry bit at his lips, the jealousy blooming in his stomach and leaving a weird taste in his mouth. ‘’Zayn is very protective. But because he knew and saw what my father did to me. And he.. We have a special friendship I agree, but you don’t have to worry about him.’’

“Yeah well, easy to say. He hates my guts.’’

Louis laughed this time, the sound bubbly and precious to Harry’s ear. “He is just possessive. Beside, he wants Liam more than he wants me.’’

“What ?” Harry straightened on the sofa, his eyes wide. ‘’Wait, Liam said the opposite.’’

Louis shook his head. ‘’Zayn is a c*nt.’’

Harry’s loud honk of a laugh took them both by surprise, and he was quick to plaster his hand against his mouth, blushing in shame.

The smile on Louis’ face slowly dimmed at the gesture, and he reached out for Harry’s wrist, slowly pulling it away from his mouth, “It always makes me a little sad when you laugh," He said, soft and calm, rubbing circles on Harry’s skin, “The way it sort of takes you by surprise. I love it, it has that sweet sincerity that's the best part of you, but it still kills me how you never seem to expect it. All I want to do is make you happy, and you're the unhappiest person I've ever met.”

Harry stared at him, not understanding why he suddenly felt the need to cry, tears stinging his eyes and making his throat constrict. He scrunched his nose, looking down with a small bite at his lower lip.

"I can't keep living this lie," Harry confessed, his voice barely above a whisper as he traced patterns on Louis’ trousers. "I want to be free, Louis. I want to tell the world who I really am."

"Sunshine," he said softly, his gaze unwavering as he met Harry's eyes. "You already know what I think about all of this. I wish I could ask you to stop touching her, and kissing her. But we have to be careful. Your situation is complicated, and we need to plan this carefully."

But Harry shook his head. “There's no need for a plan. I know exactly what will happen. But I don't care. I need to tell them. I need to…I-”

“Harry, hey,” Louis interrupted, straddling Harry's hips to cup his face in his hands.

"I want to gather everyone together for a family dinner. Just close friends and family, nothing too big or extravagant." He said, "I'll start by telling them that I've realised something important about myself, something I've been struggling with for a while," Harry continued. "And then I'll come out to them, tell them that I'm gay, and that I'm in love with you."

Louis beamed, his heart swelling with pride and affection for Harry. But before he could utter a word, Harry beat him to it.

“I’m sorry,” Harry interjected, his words tumbling out in a torrent of apology. “For everything. For leaving when I was eighteen, for ignoring you, for panicking all the time. I’m sorry I blamed you for not writing to me. I never meant to be this selfish. Sometimes my brain, it’s... sometimes it’s too much and I just don’t know how to act, and th-”

Louis silenced Harry's rambling with a tender kiss, the faint taste of pastries lingering on their lips. When they parted, Harry strained his neck to follow, but Louis simply smiled at him. "I'll be there with you every step of the way," he promised. "We'll face whatever comes together, as a team."

Harry smiled gratefully, a sense of relief washing over him.

“But for now, let’s not think about it,” Louis suggested, rising from the sofa to retrieve his briefcase and slipping his glasses back on. “Oh, by the way,” he added, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips. “Do you think you could manage getting away from London for the weekend?”

Harry's attention was drawn to Louis's glasses as he stared, momentarily lost in thought.

“Harry,” Louis called, his tone stern and bored, trying to regain his attention.

“Yeah? Yes, I think, why?” Harry replied, snapping back to reality.

Louis gave him another smirk, retrieving something from his briefcase and walking back to stand between Harry’s legs. “This,” he said, handing Harry a small flyer.

Harry frowned as he inspected it. “A golf weekend at the Soho Farmhouse?” he read aloud, raising his eyes to Louis’ and noticing the mischievous glint in his eyes. “Okay, yeah.”

“Alright then,” Louis said with a stretch, the hem of his button-up shirt rising slightly to reveal a sliver of skin on his belly button, catching Harry's attention.

“I have essays to grade,” Louis continued, “I’ll be yours in two hours.” He turned around to walk back to his desk, but before he could take another step, two strong arms encircled his waist, pulling him back to the sofa.

“Harry!” Louis laughed.

“Just five minutes,”

After spending a blissful weekend with Louis, Harry felt buoyant and content as he approached his house. But as he reached for the doorknob, a pang of apprehension gripped him. Could he bring himself to confess the truth? Could he face the consequences of his betrayal and reveal his authentic self?

The sound of Camille's footsteps echoing in the hallway shattered his reverie, and Harry braced himself for the confrontation that awaited him. As she rounded the corner, her expression was a mix of worry and frustration.

"Where have you been, Harry?" she demanded, her voice sharp with anxiety. "I've been so worried! I went to see your mom without you, and you missed brunch and church. What's going on?"

Harry winced, his guilt gnawing at him as he closed the door behind him and kicked off his shoes. He tried to sidestep her, avoiding her piercing gaze.

“Harry, I am talking to you!”

"I was with friends!" he retorted, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "Don't I have the right to spend time with them?"

Camille's brow furrowed as she scrutinised him, her concern palpable. "You can't just disappear like that," she insisted, her voice tinged with exasperation. "You have responsibilities here."

Harry let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders sagging with weariness. "And I am fulfilling them!" he protested, gesturing around him at their lavish surroundings. "Look at this house, at the life we have. Look at the dress you are wearing and all your expensive bags ! I work hard to provide for us while you spend your days drinking tea and gossiping. Don't I deserve some time for myself?"

Camille recoiled, her lips trembling as she took a step back. She seemed taken aback by his outburst, her expression a mixture of hurt and disbelief.

Harry hesitated, his resolve wavering as he grappled with his emotions. Finally, he let out another sigh, his shoulders slumping in defeat. Once again, he brushed past her and made his way to his office, the weight of his guilt pressing down on him with each step. Closing the door behind him, he sank into his desk chair, feeling the weight of his actions settle heavily on his chest.

Alone in the quiet sanctuary of his workspace, Harry allowed himself a moment of reflection. He couldn't deny the sense of relief that washed over him, knowing that he was no longer living a lie. But alongside that relief came a wave of guilt, knowing the pain his confession would inevitably cause.

Harry stood in the doorway of his office, his mind heavy with guilt and indecision. He knew he had to go out and face Camille, to have dinner with her like nothing was wrong, but the weight of his secret threatened to spill out of his mouth with every breath he took.

As he entered the kitchen, he found Camille busy at the stove, her back turned to him as she prepared a meal for them. He watched her for a moment, the guilt weighing heavy on his chest, before she turned around and approached him, her touch gentle as she caressed his arm.

"I am sorry," she said softly, her voice tinged with sadness. "I missed you... it's all."

Harry's muscles tensed under her touch, the words feeling foreign in his ears now that he had heard them from Louis. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to push away the conflicting emotions swirling inside him, but when he opened them again, he couldn't bring himself to tell her the truth.

"I will be gone again this weekend," he said instead, his voice barely above a whisper.

Camille froze, her eyes flashing with anger and hurt as she processed his words. Silently, she served him his plate and hers, before sitting down next to him at the table.

"Do I have the right to know where and with whom, or is this also something you don't want me to do?" she asked bitterly, her tone sharp with resentment.

Harry swallowed, the weight of her words sinking deep into his conscience. "Miles and some other guys from Oxford," he replied, his voice heavy with guilt. "It's a golf getaway, to have everyone gathering again. Maybe going to ask Niall."

Camille's spoon swirled absently in her soup as she contemplated his words. "Oh," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Will there be girls?"

Harry almost wanted to laugh at her concern, knowing that it paled in comparison to the truth he was keeping from her. "No, it's just us, a couple of lads," he replied, his heart heavy with the weight of his deceit.

As Harry stepped into the cosy coffee shop, a wave of nostalgia enveloped him, transporting him back to the days of his youth. The familiar scent of fresh pastries and coffee mingled with the soft hum of chatter, evoking memories of simpler times. And there, sitting at a table in the corner, was Gemma, his beloved sister.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, Harry felt like he was eighteen again, reliving the same scene from years ago. But this time, there was a subtle shift in the air. Gemma knew. He could see it in her eyes. She had seen them, she knew about Louis, and he prayed silently that she was on his side.

With a nervous smile, Harry made his way over to Gemma's table, his heart pounding in his chest as he took a seat opposite her.

"Gemma," he greeted, his voice tinged with apprehension as she rose and hugged him, her hand moving to his back in a tender, reassuring caress.

There was a brief moment of silence between them as they sat down, filled with unspoken words and hidden truths. Harry fidgeted with the sleeve of his jacket, trying to gather his thoughts before speaking.

"I... I wanted to talk to you," he began, his words hesitant as he searched for the right way to broach the subject. "About Louis."

Gemma nodded, her expression encouraging as she leaned forward slightly, waiting for him to continue.

"I know you saw us," Harry confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "You saw us and... I'm sorry if it caught you off guard."

Gemma reached across the table, placing a reassuring hand on Harry's arm. "Harry, you don't need to apologise," she said gently. "I've known for a while now, and I just want you to know that I support you."

“How.. for a while?”

She smiled softly. "Well, I've known you since forever, and I've seen the way you look at people."

Harry furrowed his brow, his gaze lingering on her face. "What do you mean?"

Gemma chuckled lightly, her eyes scanning the surroundings before she leaned closer, her chin resting on her palm as she spoke softly. "Harry, remember that day? When you came back from Oxford, and we met at this coffee shop?” She paused, waiting for Harry's nod of recognition. "You said to me that day, 'I met someone named Louis.'" His breath hitched, and his finger twitched on the table, the mere mention of Louis' name tugging at his chest. "And I just saw it in your eyes."

Harry's eyes widened, a flood of memories rushing back. "I... I thought no one noticed that."

Gemma squeezed his hand reassuringly. "Harry, I'm your sister. I notice everything. And I want you to know that I love you just the same, no matter who you are or love."

Relief washed over Harry like a tidal wave, and he felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. For so long, he had carried the weight of his secret alone, afraid of how his family would react. But now, with Gemma's unwavering support, he felt a sense of liberation he had never known before.

"Thank you, Gem," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. "Thank you for understanding."

Gemma squeezed his arm affectionately, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. "You're my brother, Harry," she said softly. "And I'll always be here for you, no matter what."

Their waitress brought their beverages, and while he felt relieved, he knew there was still more he needed to say. He glanced down at her belly, his lips pinched with worry. “That's not all,’’ he muttered.

She stirred sugar into her tea, taking her time before meeting his gaze again. ‘’You want to divorce,’’ she stated matter-of-factly, her words hanging heavy in the air.

Harry opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come, stuck in his throat. He hadn’t allowed himself to say that word, afraid of what it implied. He licked his lips, swallowing hard as he fixed his gaze on his coffee.

“Listen,” she began, crossing her legs. “I won’t tell you not to do it. Hell, I didn’t want you to marry her. But, you have to be prepared for what will happen once you do.” Harry pinched his lips again, the weight of Gemma's words sinking in, his heartbeat faltering at the thought of his father's reaction. ''Father is going to disown you, for sure. And while I don't worry about what will happen to you, I do worry about what he will do to you.''

"I don't care," he said, surprising even himself with the conviction in his voice. He met Gemma's eyes, his resolve unwavering. ''I don't care. I can't—I won't spend my life away when I could be with him.''

She seemed surprised, but her features softened. ''I would really like for us three to have dinner.'

"With Louis?"

She chuckled, ''Yes, with Louis, you idiot.''

"Why?"

"Because,'' she said simply, sipping on her tea while she cradled her belly. ''I want to meet my daughter's new uncle.''

Harry felt a surge of emotion at the mere notion of Louis being part of his family. He looked down at her belly, then at her, and suddenly, he felt the urge to hug her. So he leaned to the side and nuzzled into her neck to hide the wetness in his eyes. She brought her hand to the side of his head, pressing her face against his forehead, whispering softly, ''I love you, baby brother.''

Chapter 17: NIghts in white satin

Chapter Text

The week flew by in a whirlwind of anticipation for Harry. Each day seemed to blur into the next as he counted down the hours until he could escape to the weekend getaway with Louis. However, amidst his excitement, his relationship with Camille deteriorated further. Unable to continue the charade, Harry distanced himself, avoiding physical contact and feigning exhaustion to avoid intimate moments.

As the weekend drew nearer and Harry packed his bags with eager anticipation, his excitement reached a fever pitch. He meticulously checked and rechecked his belongings, ensuring he had everything he needed for their time together. The small gift he had chosen for Louis lay nestled among his belongings, a token of his affection and excitement for their impending reunion.

Camille's scepticism about the weekend getaway only added to the tension between them. She bombarded him with questions throughout the week, demanding to know every detail about his plans. With each lie he spun to appease her curiosity, it became easier to deceive her, the falsehoods slipping from his tongue with practised ease.

As the clock struck noon on the day of departure, Harry hastily zipped up his bags and made his way downstairs, his heart pounding with anticipation. Dressed in crisp cream and white attire, he exuded an air of excitement and freedom. Camille's disapproving gaze met him at the door, but he ignored it, eager to escape to the sanctuary of his car and begin his journey to Louis.

As Camille's voice echoed behind him, Harry's steps faltered, his hand lingering on the door handle. The reproach in her tone pierced through him, stirring a mixture of guilt and longing within his chest. He turned back to face her, his eyes meeting hers, filled with a tumult of emotions.

With a heavy sigh, Harry retrieved his golf equipment and duffel bag from the trunk of his car before returning to Camille's side. She looked at him with a soft smile, her eyes brimming with affection and longing. In that moment, Harry felt a pang of guilt for the distance he had put between them, for the secrets he harboured and the love he couldn't reciprocate.

As she raised herself on tiptoe and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him into a passionate kiss, Harry's mind raced with conflicting thoughts. Her lips pressed against his, warm and eager, but his response was hesitant, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air behind her.

When they finally parted, Camille blushed, her cheeks flushed with emotion. "I'll be missing you," she whispered softly, her voice tinged with longing.

A strained smile tugged at Harry's lips as he struggled to find the right words. "See you soon," he managed to reply, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

With one last glance back at Camille, Harry descended the stairs and slipped into his car, the weight of his secrets heavy on his shoulders. As he drove away, the promise of freedom and love beckoned him forward, but the ache in his heart remained, a reminder of the tangled web of emotions he left behind.

The sun was bright and piercing over the elegant streets of Mayfair, painting the historic buildings in warm hues as Harry parked his car on the bustling London street. The air was filled with the lively chatter of pedestrians and the occasional honk of a passing car, creating a vibrant atmosphere in the heart of the city.

Leaning against the front of his car, Harry took a drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling lazily around him as he watched the world go by. His mind was consumed with thoughts of Louis, anticipation building with each passing moment.

Suddenly, a sharp whistle pierced through the air, drawing Harry's attention. He turned to see Louis approaching, a vision of effortless style and charm. Louis wore a brown polo shirt paired with high-waisted white flare pants, the fabric billowing gently in the breeze. A white cardigan was draped casually over his shoulders, adding a touch of sophistication to his ensemble. With sunglasses perched on his nose, Louis exuded an air of confidence and allure as he made his way towards Harry.

Harry's breath caught in his throat as he took in the sight of Louis, his heart racing with excitement. For a fleeting moment, he forgot where they were, overcome by the sheer beauty of the man before him. He was tempted to pull Louis into his arms and kiss him right then and there, but Louis placed a hand on his stomach, chuckling softly to rein him in.

As they loaded Louis' bag into the trunk of Harry's car, their movements flowed effortlessly, a silent dance of coordination and partnership.

Harry moved to open the passenger door for Louis, but Louis didn't budge. Instead, he extended his hand, palm upturned, expectantly.

"What?" Harry asked, glancing around in confusion. "Did you forget something?"

"Keys," Louis replied with a smile, the sunlight catching in his hair and highlighting its golden hues. A gentle breeze carried his scent to Harry's nose, stirring something warm and familiar within him.

"You... you want to drive my car?" Harry stuttered, taken aback by the unexpected request.

Louis nodded, his hand still outstretched. "Yes, Harry. Your car. I know where we're going, and you don't. So I should be the one driving."

Harry hesitated, feeling a flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. "Well, I mean... we could take your car?"

Louis narrowed his eyes playfully, feigning offence as he placed a hand over his heart. "You don't trust me to drive your car?" he teased.

"No!" Harry blurted out, then corrected himself. "I mean, yes," he stammered, flustered. "I mean... she's my baby."

Louis chuckled at Harry's flustered response, finding amusem*nt in his endearing quirks. He leaned closer, his breath warm against Harry's ear as he whispered teasingly, "But Harry, I thought i was your baby.’’

Harry's cheeks flushed pink at the playful tone in Louis' voice, his heart fluttering at the sight of Louis' mischievous grin. He pouted, reaching into his pocket to retrieve the car keys. "It's just... I'm not used to letting anyone else drive my car."

Louis took the keys with a grin, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "Consider it an adventure," he said, sliding into the driver's seat and adjusting the mirrors. "Besides, I promise to take good care of your baby."

Harry watched with a mixture of apprehension and excitement as Louis started the engine, the purr of the car filling the air. As they pulled away from the curb and onto the open road, Harry couldn't help but feel a sense of exhilaration wash over him. With Louis by his side, he knew that this impromptu road trip would be one for the books.

As Louis took the wheel, the Rolling Stones' music filled the car, the bass thumping in time with the rhythm of their hearts. With the windows down, the wind tousled Louis' hair, giving him a carefree aura as he drove, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

Harry sat beside him, unable to tear his gaze away from Louis. He watched as the sunlight danced across Louis' features, highlighting the contours of his face and casting a golden glow over his skin. At that moment, Harry felt like the luckiest person alive, free and happy in Louis' presence.

"You know," Louis said, flashing Harry a playful grin, "if you keep staring at me like that, we're going to end up crashing."

Harry chuckled, his cheeks flushing pink. "Can you blame me?" he replied, unable to hide the adoration in his voice. "You're just too… handsome."

Louis rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of amusem*nt in his expression. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Styles," he teased, his fingers tapping along to the beat of the music on the steering wheel. “I thought you would be jealous that I’m driving your baby.’’

“I’ll survive.” He said with a smile, ‘’It’s not like we didn’t..”

“Hm?” Louis hummed, his eyes focused on the road. “You mean have sex right where I’m sitting?’’

Harry laughed, covering his face with his hands, ‘’Lou,’’ He whined with shame, his blush growing more obvious.

“Does this baby have a name then ?’ He said, caressing the wheel as they stopped at a red light.

“Lola.’’

Louis raised a brow, his elbow leaning on the window, finger playing with his chin.

“Lola." Harry repeated. "As in The Kinks’ song.”

Louis stared at him for a beat, his expression unreadable. But then, he reached Harry’s hand and brought it on his own thigh as he started the car again. ‘’You’re weird.”

With each passing miles, Harry felt more alive than ever, grateful for this moment of freedom and companionship with the person he loved most in the world. As the sun hung high in the sky, casting a warm glow over the horizon, Harry knew that as long as he had Louis by his side, he could conquer anything that came their way.

Alone in the cavernous, empty house, Camille found herself grappling with the weight of solitude. She could have sought solace at her family home, but lacking a car and the skill to drive, she remained confined within the quiet walls. Sinking into a state of pouting and sulking over Harry's recent departure, she eventually resolved to hail a cab and join Eleanor for a night out.

An hour later, seated across from Eleanor in the intimate ambiance of a cosy restaurant, Camille absentmindedly swirled the wine in her glass, her thoughts consumed by Harry's unexplained absence. Despite her attempts to push aside the gnawing feeling of unease, her mind continually circled back to him.

Eleanor noticed Camille's distracted demeanour and couldn't resist probing gently. "What's on your mind, darling?" she inquired, plucking an olive from the dish.

Camille sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. "I don't know. I just feel... off," she admitted, her brow furrowing. "Have you heard from Louis lately? How's he doing?"

Eleanor's expression softened. "Well," she began, tossing her long hair behind her shoulders, "we caught up over coffee a few days ago. He's out of London this weekend, so I suppose we—"

Her words trailed off as Camille's attention drifted away from the conversation. The realisation struck her like a bolt of lightning—Louis was absent at the same time as Harry. A frown creased her brow as she mulled over the implications.

"Did he tell you where he went?" she asked abruptly, her voice tinged with concern.

Eleanor shrugged, taking a sip of her drink. "Oh, some golf nonsense with a group of men," she replied nonchalantly.

While they kept going on with their dinner, Eleanor noticed Camille's subdued mood and tried to lift her spirits with gossip and laughter, but Camille's mind remained preoccupied. Sensing that a change of scenery might help, Eleanor suggested they head to a nearby pub for a more laid-back atmosphere.

As they entered the bustling pub, Camille's eyes scanned the room, searching for a distraction from her swirling thoughts. That distraction came in the form of a familiar face—Miles, whom she had met at a wedding some time ago. Her heart skipped a beat as their eyes met, and she felt a mix of surprise and apprehension.

Summoning her courage, Camille approached Miles, offering a polite smile. "Hi, Miles," she greeted, hoping her voice didn't betray the turmoil within her.

Miles returned her smile, though there was a hint of confusion in his expression. "Hey there, Camille," he replied, a furrow forming on his brow. "What brings you here?"

Camille hesitated for a moment before deciding to address the elephant in the room. "I just wanted to say thank you for letting Harry stay with you so many times after your nights out," she said, her voice steady despite the butterflies in her stomach. "I'm really happy he found his old friend back."

To her surprise, Miles's expression shifted from confusion to embarrassment. He scratched the back of his neck nervously before responding. "Um, I think you're confusing me with someone else," he admitted, his cheeks flushing slightly. "I only saw him at the reunion, and I haven't see him since then." He chuckled then, ‘’Where is he by the way ? Did he came with you?’’

Camille's heart sank at his words, a wave of nausea washing over her as realisation dawned. Harry had lied to her about his whereabouts, and she felt a pang of betrayal. Swallowing hard, she forced herself to maintain a composed façade, not wanting to let on to Miles the turmoil she was feeling inside.

Forcing a smile, Camille replied, "Oh, I must have been mistaken then," though her voice sounded hollow even to her own ears.

As the evening wore on, Camille found herself unable to shake the nagging suspicion that Harry was being unfaithful. Despite Eleanor's attempts to distract her with lively conversation and more wine, the unsettling thought persisted, gnawing at her insides like a relentless beast.

With each passing glass of wine, Camille's inhibitions melted away, drowned in a sea of alcohol. She drank to numb the ache in her heart, to silence the doubts that plagued her mind. The more she drank, the more the world around her blurred into a hazy fog, until she couldn't even recall why she had started drinking in the first place.

Eleanor watched with growing concern as Camille downed glass after glass, her laughter becoming increasingly forced and hollow. She tried to intervene, to coax Camille into slowing down or stopping altogether, but her words fell on deaf ears.

Lost in a swirling vortex of emotions and alcohol, Camille succumbed to the numbing embrace of intoxication, seeking refuge from the painful reality that threatened to consume her. In that moment, the only thing that mattered was drowning out the relentless voice in her head, even if it meant losing herself in the process.

As they arrived at the Soho Farmhouse, Harry's eyes widened at the sight of the cars already parked in the lot, their sleek designs adding to the nostalgic charm of the place. He followed Louis, carrying both their bags while Louis walked ahead, his hands swinging freely at his sides. The entrance of the farmhouse greeted them with warmth and rustic elegance, wooden beams stretching across the ceiling and sunlight streaming in through open windows, casting soft shadows on the polished floors.

Louis led Harry deeper into the farmhouse, weaving through the crowd of men gathered in the common area. The atmosphere buzzed with excitement, laughter, and the faint strains of rock and roll music playing in the background.

As they reached a quiet corner of the room, Louis turned to Harry, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He raised on his tiptoes to kiss him, but Harry's reflexes kicked in, and he pulled away, his eyes darting nervously around the room.

"Darling," Louis whispered, his fingers tracing the open lapels of Harry's polo, "look around."

Harry glanced around hesitantly, taking in the lively scene before him. Men filled the room, laughter mingling with the strains of rock and roll music playing from a nearby record player. The air was thick with the scent of alcohol, and scattered furniture hinted at the revelry that had taken place. Some guests lounged by the swimming pool, while others engaged in animated conversations, their camaraderie evident in their easy gestures and close proximity.

As Harry observed more closely, he noticed subtle nuances in the interactions around him. Men leaned in close to each other, their laughter infectious and their expressions unguarded. Some displayed a flirtatious playfulness, while others exuded a confident femininity that intrigued him. His gaze drifted to the pool, where two men shared an intimate kiss, unabashed and carefree.

He felt a blush rise to his cheeks as he turned to Louis, who stood beside him with a patient smile.

"We're not here for golf, are we?" Harry asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

Louis chuckled softly, his demeanour gentle and reassuring. "Babe," he said, brushing his hand against Harry's cheek, "I don't even golf."

Harry took a moment to process the revelation, his thoughts swirling with a mix of emotions. He felt a sense of bewilderment and exhilaration at the realisation of what this weekend truly entailed.

Louis leaned in to kiss his cheek, his touch comforting and familiar. "I'll go get us some drinks," he said, preparing to leave.

But as the significance of their surroundings sank in, Harry's heart swelled with a newfound sense of freedom and possibility. Without hesitation, he reached out and caught Louis' wrist, spinning him around to face him. With an arm encircling Louis' waist and the other cradling his face, Harry leaned in to kiss him deeply, savouring the taste of liberation on his lips.

As they became lost in their kiss, the sudden eruption of cheering and clapping behind them startled Harry, causing him to pull away with lips flushed a deep red.

“Look at that,” Liam remarked, sauntering over with a co*cktail glass in hand and his shirt unbuttoned, revealing his bare chest. “Already in the honeymoon phase?”

Zayn followed close behind, a cigarette tucked behind his ear, his whisky glass held casually in his hand. His gaze lingered on Harry, studying him with a thoughtful expression.

“Ah!” Louis exclaimed, disentangling himself from Harry to join Liam and Zayn. He slipped between them, wrapping his arms around their shoulders and pressing their cheeks together. “Let the weekend begin!”

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the sprawling grounds of the Soho Farmhouse, the air was thick with the scent of marijuana and the sound of rock and roll music, mingling with the laughter and chatter of the guests as they mingled and danced. The atmosphere was electric, pulsating with an energy that seemed to transcend time and space.

Harry found himself drawn into conversations with men he had never met before, their outfits ranging from flamboyant and extravagant to understated and chic. Some lounged by the swimming pool, their bronzed bodies glistening in the fading sunlight, while others gathered around makeshift bars, passing bottles of alcohol and joints between them with careless abandon.

As Harry spoke with his newfound companions, the topic of queerness and love flowed freely, each man sharing his own experiences and perspectives with a candour that was both refreshing and liberating.

"It's liberating, isn't it?" one man remarked, his eyes alight with excitement as he took a drag from his cigarette. "To be able to be ourselves, to love who we want, without fear of judgement or persecution."

Harry nodded in agreement, a sense of solidarity washing over him as he listened to the stories of his fellow revellers. "It's like a weight has been lifted," he admitted, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "To be here, surrounded by people who understand, who accept us for who we are."

“How long have you been with Louis?’’

“Oh, it’s, um... recent,’’ he said, his voice tinged with affection. “But I've loved him since I was eighteen.”

“Oh!” One of the men exclaimed, his hand resting gently on Harry’s forearm as he batted his heavily made-up eyelashes. ‘’It's so cute.’’

Harry giggled, feeling a warmth spread through him as he continued chatting with his newfound friends, stealing glances at Louis by the swimming pool. They exchanged a brief, loving glance, Louis raising his glass in a silent toast to Harry's happiness.

"You did well, mate," Liam said, clapping Louis on the back as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. "This place is incredible."

Louis grinned, his eyes sparkling mischievously as he surveyed the scene before him. "Just wait until the real party starts," he replied, excitement evident in his voice. "Tonight is going to be legendary."

“Are you sure about him?” Zayn interjected, gesturing toward where Harry stood, passing the joint to Louis. ‘’I don’t-’’

“Zayn, love,’’ Louis said, taking a deep inhale on the joint before exhaling slowly. ‘’I love you, from the bottom of my heart. But truly, stop it.’’ Zayn rolled his eyes in annoyance, but Louis took his cheeks between his fingers, forcing him to pout, stepping closer. ‘’Now, you are going to be a gentleman, and you are going to take Liam for a dance.’’

The room was illuminated by the warm glow of lava lamps and neon lights, casting colourful patterns across the walls and ceiling. The décor was a blend of retro and eclectic, with shag carpets, velvet drapes, and bean bag chairs scattered throughout the space. The furniture was mismatched but cosy, inviting guests to lounge and relax as they indulged in the festivities.

The music reverberated through the house, creating a lively and energetic atmosphere that was impossible to resist. People danced and mingled freely, their inhibitions melting away with each passing hour. Couples stayed together on the makeshift dance floor, their bodies moving in sync with the rhythm of the music.

Amidst the crowd, Louis and Harry were inseparable. They danced together with reckless abandon, their movements fluid and effortless as they moved to the beat of the music. Their laughter filled the air as they spun and twirled, lost in the moment and lost in each other.

Across the room, Zayn and Liam were engaged in their own dance, their movements more subdued but no less passionate. They moved with a quiet intensity, their eyes locked in a tender embrace as they swayed together in perfect harmony.

As the music pulsed through the room and the colourful lights danced around them, Harry and Louis found themselves caught up in the infectious energy of the party. They moved together on the makeshift dance floor, their bodies swaying in perfect harmony as they laughed and talked amidst the music.

"I know I said it already but-" Louis said, his voice barely audible over the thumping bass. He twirled Harry around, pulling him close as they danced. "You're an amazing dancer, Harry,"

Harry grinned, feeling the warmth of Louis' hand on his waist. "I learned from the best," he replied, his cheeks flushed with excitement.

Louis chuckled, the sound sending shivers down Harry's spine. "I got some moves," he teased, his tone dripping with playful flirtation. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against Harry's ear. "Everyone is looking at you."

Harry's heart fluttered at the sensation of Louis' lips brushing against his ear. He leaned back slightly, their eyes locking in a heated gaze. "You're one to talk," he shot back, while his hands slowly made their way to Louis’ ass, sliding in the pocket on his trousers. “But you’re all mine.”

Louis bit his lips, his fingers tracing tantalising patterns along Harry's chest as they moved together on the dance floor. "Only tonight?" he murmured against his ear again, his voice low and seductive.

Harry's pulse quickened at Louis' suggestive words, the heat between them igniting with each passing moment. He pulled him in by pushing on his bum, bringing his leg in between his thighs, forcing their hips together. They both looked down to where they were now grinding against each other, Louis licking his lips. “Forever.”

Louis leaned in close, his lips hovering just inches from Harry's mouth. "Forever sounds perfect," he said, sliding his mouth along his cheek, giving a small bite at his lobe, his breath hot against Harry's skin, "but I have some other ideas for what we could do together."

Harry's breath caught in his throat, his senses heightened by the electrifying tension between them. He felt a surge of desire as Louis' hand trailed down his chest, teasingly grazing his belt with a mischievous smile before his hand disappeared behind his back.

Louis wrapped his arms around Harry, a playful glint in his eyes as he presented a small bottle. "This, my dear, is Liquid Gold," he announced, his smile contagious.

With a flourish, Louis stepped back, swaying his hips to the music as he brought the bottle to his nose. Harry watched, intrigued, as Louis demonstrated how to use the mysterious substance, inhaling deeply with a blissful expression.

Louis came close again, bringing the bottle to Harry’s nose. And, eager to experience it for himself, Harry mimicked him, covering one nostril and taking a deep breath. At first, the scent stung his senses, causing him to squeeze his eyes shut. But then, a rush of warmth flooded through him, igniting every cell in his body.

His heartbeat quickened, his mind swimming with a blissful haze as he leaned into Louis, their bodies melding together in perfect harmony. With a lazy smile, he pulled Louis close, lost in the euphoria of the moment as they danced.

"Do you know what it is for?" Louis whispered against Harry's ear, his breath sending shivers down Harry's spine.

Struggling to regain his senses, Harry shook his head, pressing his nose into Louis' neck to inhale his familiar scent.

With a mischievous chuckle, Louis licked at Harry's earlobe, eliciting a moan from Harry. "It will make it so easy for you to be inside me," Louis murmured, his hand caressing Harry's back as they continued to grind against each other. "Because you are so big, yeah?"

"Lou," Harry moaned again, his voice a mixture of warning and pleading.

But Louis pulled away, announcing loudly over the music, "I have a surprise for you. Wait for me."

Harry could only watch as Louis disappeared into the crowd, his heart pounding with anticipation. Before he could fully process what was happening, another man sidled up to him, pressing close and eager.

"Um, I—" Harry started, raising his hands defensively to avoid contact.

"Sorry, love, this one is taken," came a familiar voice.

Harry turned his head at the sound, startled to see Zayn of all people. Liam quickly joined, forming a protective barrier around him with Zayn in front and Liam behind. Was it the drugs or was he still in London, caught in some surreal dream? Harry hesitated, but they effortlessly swayed against him, their hands resting on him, sending tingles down his spine.

“Louis is a very jealous person, you know,” Liam murmured against his ear, his words slightly slurred.

“And I don’t want you to touch anyone but him,” Zayn added, his voice low and husky.

Harry could only watch as Zayn moved with him, unsure if it was permissible to reciprocate. He noticed the redness in Zayn's eyes, the dilation of his pupils, and realised that everyone in the room was under the influence. As they danced in the dimly lit room, Harry felt a rush of exhilaration and anticipation, the music pulsating in sync with his racing heart.

Minutes or hours later, Liam tapped his hip, urging him to look up. Harry followed his gaze to the staircase, where Louis stood, beckoning him with a raised eyebrow before disappearing again.

Taking it as a sign, Harry wordlessly disentangled himself from Zayn and Liam, his mind clouded but his heart racing. He stumbled blindly toward the stairs, trying to steady his breath and make sense of the whirlwind of emotions inside him.

The suite enveloped them in a warm, orange glow cast by the hanging light fixtures. White wood adorned the floors and walls, complemented by heavy rugs and lush velvet green curtains that framed the large windows. The bed dominated the room, boasting an enormous black metal headboard and crisp white sheets, with a sofa nestled at its feet. Louis stood before it, framed by the open windows that led to the balcony and garden, the distant sounds of music and laughter filling the air.

But Harry's attention was solely on Louis, mesmerised by the flush of his cheeks and the glossiness of his eyes. He remained still, captivated, waiting for Louis to guide him.

"Come here," Louis whispered, and Harry moved to him without hesitation.

Louis led him to the bed, guiding Harry to sit on the edge while he made his way to the wooden console near the door. His fingers traced over the records, searching for a specific one with a seemingly effortless grace that Harry found both beautiful and surprising, considering Louis's capacity for intensity and exuberance.

The record spun slowly, its scratchy sound filling the room. Louis turned to face him, slowly beginning to shed his own clothes as he walked towards Harry.

Harry's breath caught in his throat as Louis stood before him, clad in a simple white satin nightgown that reached mid-thigh. It reminded Harry of that very first night, years ago, when he had innocently followed Louis home and found him in a green silk ensemble. He tried to form words, but the sight before him was too breathtaking for coherent speech.

“I just wanted to show you-’’ Louis began, his hands sliding up the fabric, revealing a flash of lace at his hips, ‘’That I can be as captivating as she is.’’

With delicate movements, Louis traced his fingers along the straps of the nightgown, letting it slip down his body. Harry's eyes were fixed on the lace panties that hugged Louis's slender waist, his breath catching in his throat.

“You’re more than good,’’ Harry murmured, stepping closer to Louis, his gaze intense, ‘’You're the only one I've ever wanted, you’re everything.’’

“Just me?” Louis asked, tilting his head coyly.

“Only you.’’ Harry replied, his voice filled with a mixture of desire and devotion, before crashing his lips against Louis's. Their kiss was passionate and urgent, hands tangled in each other's hair as they lost themselves in the moment, their moans and breaths mingling with the music that filled the air.

They stumbled backwards, Louis deftly removing Harry's clothes before pushing him onto the sofa.

“Nights in white satin

Never reaching the end

Letters I've written

Never meaning to send”

“This song always makes me think of you.’’ Louis said, letting the lace fabric down his legs as he kneeled on the sofa, waiting for Harry to face him, legs spread in front of him.

Harry followed his movements, letting Louis settle on his hips, skin burning against each other, the breeze coming from the open window creating goosebumps on their skin. His heart felt full, too full that it became overwhelming, and he suddenly felt like crying, from how much in love he was. His hands grazed Louis’ thigh, sliding up his back and gripping his neck while Louis brought the golden bottle up again, inhaling it.

“Beauty I'd always missed

With these eyes before

Just what the truth is

I can't say anymore”

Raising on his knees, Louis took Harry’s co*ck in his hand and guided it to his already wet hole, sinking back down in one go, smooth and easy, making them both exhale in bliss. He brought the bottle to Harry’s nose as he started to move, and Harry obeyed once again, welcoming the warmth and dizziness.

“'Cause I love you

Yes, I love you

Oh, how I love you”

The music swirled around them, the rhythm matching the fervour of their movements as they pressed against each other on the plush sofa. With Louis' body against his own, Harry's heart surged with emotion, tears welling up in his eyes as he held onto Louis tightly.

Louis gripped the backrest for support, guiding their undulating motions with skillful precision. Each roll of his hips sent waves of pleasure coursing through Harry's body, eliciting a symphony of moans that filled the room.

Harry couldn't tear his gaze away from Louis, captivated by the raw intensity reflected in his expression as they moved together in perfect harmony. Their hands sought out each other's skin, fingers grazing and scraping skins in desperate attempts to anchor themselves to one another. Though they attempted to steal kisses amidst the heat of passion, their mouths remained open, releasing moans of ecstasy.

The sounds that escaped Louis' lips were like music to Harry's ears, each whisper of his name sending shivers down his spine. As Louis clutched at his shoulder, their connection deepened, transcending the physical realm as they lost themselves in the intoxicating pleasure of their union.

Their bodies quivered and twitched with the intensity of pleasure coursing through them, yet their movements retained a languid and sensual quality. As Harry's hips delved deeper into their rhythm, each thrust elicited guttural groans that escaped from his parted lips, his mouth hanging open in a perpetual state of ecstasy.

"I love you,'' Louis whispered, his breath mingling with Harry's as he looked down.

Sensing his climax drawing near, Harry clutched at Louis' hand on the backrest, intertwining their fingers with a fierce grip, his knuckles turning white with the intensity of his emotions. Louis smiled down at him, his expression tender and radiant, and Harry felt his heart swell with overwhelming affection.

“I love you,'' Harry moaned, pressing kisses to Louis' chest, over his heart, before resting his forehead against Louis', closing his eyes and letting himself go.

The party continued to pulse downstairs as Louis rested his head on Harry's chest, the scent of marijuana now filling the air around them, a gift from Zayn apparently. With lazy, dazed eyes, Louis traced circles on Harry's bare chest with his forefinger as he posed a sudden question.

"How many men have you been with since Oxford?" Louis inquired, his words floating in the hazy atmosphere.

Harry, gazing up at the ceiling while taking a drag from the joint, felt like he was lying on a cloud as he struggled to formulate a response. "Six, I think," he murmured, the smoke curling from his lips.

Louis propped himself up on his hands, hovering over Harry. "That's quite a few."

"Not really," Harry shrugged, rotating the joint between his fingers as he watched Louis take a drag. "When I was in America, I tried to convince myself that I liked being with women. But in the end, I always found myself drawn back to men."

"Why did you come back to London?" Louis's question held layers of meaning, probing into Harry's motivations.

Harry sighed, licking his dry lips. "I couldn't just leave like that. My mom, Gemma... Oh, by the way, she wants to meet you."

"She's already met me," Louis replied casually, flopping onto the other side of the sofa, his feet playfully tickling Harry's armpit. "Do you see yourself in London forever?"

The question weighed heavily on Harry's mind, his words becoming increasingly difficult to articulate as he lazily crushed the joint in the ashtray and crossed his arms behind his head. "Where else would we go?"

Louis's response was met with a bright, toothy smile. "France."

"But I don't speak French," Harry protested.

"I do, Monsieur," Louis teased, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "I'm a quarter French."

Harry sat up a bit straighter, intrigued by Louis's revelation.

"I mean, I don't speak like a native," Louis admitted, blushing slightly. "But I can get by. Like..." He waved his hand in the air theatrically. "Parlez-vous anglais? Je voudrais un café au lait, s'il vous plaît. Things like that."

Harry's mouth popped open, staring at Louis in complete silence before he shifted on the sofa and started crawling on top of Louis with a smirk.

"What are you doing?" Louis laughed, pushing backward until he lay completely under Harry, his hands on his chest to maintain a distance between their naked bodies. "Does that turn you on?"

"Keep speaking," Harry requested.

Louis chuckled. "Harry," he said, pronouncing the name with a French accent, the mere sound of it making Harry shiver and close his eyes. “Hm, that gets you?”

“Yeah.”

He purposely scrapped his nails down Harry’s back, parting his legs to welcome Harry in between, taking his lobe between his lips. “Wanna f*ck me again?”

Harry sigh dreamingly, nodding eagerly as his hands started to make their ways to Louis’ thighs.

Louis bit down hard on his ear, making Harry squeal and moan at the same time. "Now get off me, I'm starving," Louis said, playfully slapping Harry's biceps.

Harry huffed and groaned in pain, raising on his knees on the small sofa, watching Louis stand up.

With unsteady steps, they navigated the obstacles of discarded clothing, tripping and stumbling over them in their high-induced dizziness. Harry reached for the door, ready to embark on their culinary adventure, when Louis called out to him.

"Harry!" Louis exclaimed, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Harry turned to look at him, his eyebrows raised in confusion. "What is it?"

Louis pointed to Harry's naked body, a wide grin spreading across his face. "You're still naked, love."

Harry burst into another fit of laughter, realising his own state of undress. "Oh, right!" he exclaimed between chuckles.

Rummaging through the scattered clothes, Harry retrieved one of his shirts and tossed it to Louis, who caught it with a laugh. "Perfect," Louis declared, slipping the shirt over his head and letting it hang loosely on his frame.

With Louis fully dressed and Harry sporting nothing but his bare chest, he swung the door open, ready to venture out into the hallway. The warm glow of the hallway lights welcomed them as they stepped outside, barefoot and carefree. Louis hooked on Harry’s arm, their vision slightly blurry as they padded through the corridor, Harry humming along to the song blasting downstairs.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Louis hushed, pulling Harry back a few steps and stopping in front of a nearby door.

Unmistakable sounds emanated from the room—a symphony of passionate moans and rhythmic thuds.

Louis pressed a finger to his lips, his eyes sparkling mischievously as he gestured for Harry to stay silent. They exchanged a glance, trying to stifle their laughter as they leaned in closer to the door, their ears straining to catch every sound.

"Who do you think it is?" Louis whispered, his voice barely audible over the amorous soundtrack coming from the room.

Harry shrugged, attempting to suppress a snicker. "Could be anyone," he replied, his eyes twinkling with amusem*nt. "Maybe that bloke... What was his name? Joshua? The ginger one."

Louis grinned, a playful glint in his eye. "You're on," he whispered back, extending his hand for a bet.

Harry nodded, shaking Louis' hand firmly. "Deal."

Just as they were about to place their bets, the door swung open abruptly, revealing a half-dressed Liam, flushed and out of breath. He froze, looking from Harry to Louis, his hands flying to button his pants.

Caught off guard, Harry and Louis burst into uncontrollable laughter, their attempts to contain their amusem*nt failing miserably as they collapsed against the wall in fits of giggles. Zayn appeared behind Liam, wearing a bemused expression. "Hey," he said, holding out a shirt for Liam to wear.

"Hi guys," Liam added, his cheeks still tinged with pink.

Harry and Louis struggled to compose themselves, wiping tears of laughter from their eyes as they exchanged sheepish smiles with their friends.

"Hungry?" Louis managed to choke out between giggles.

"Starving," Zayn answered.

That prompted another round of giggles from the group, with Zayn rolling his eyes and pushing past, holding Liam’s hand as they headed for the stairs.

In the quiet stillness of the cottage, the only sound that echoed through the room was the soft rustle of sheets as Harry and Louis found themselves tangled together in the aftermath of the night's revelry. The remnants of alcohol and drugs lingered in their bodies, heightening their senses and leaving them enveloped in a haze of intoxication.

As Harry reached for the bedside drawer, Louis watched him with a lazy smile, his movements languid and relaxed. "Another round?" he asked with a playful grin, pressing a tender kiss to Harry's armpit.

But Harry's response was unexpected, his expression serious as he retrieved a small red velvet box from the drawer. “Got something for you.” Louis sat up straighter in bed, curiosity gleaming in his eyes as he watched Harry approach.

With a solemn air, Harry presented the box to Louis, his voice barely above a whisper. "Here," he said, his gaze fixed on Louis with a mixture of apprehension and adoration.

Louis' breath caught in his throat as he gazed down at the box, his heart pounding with anticipation. With trembling fingers, he reached out and opened the box, revealing a delicate golden locket necklace nestled on a small black cushion.

Tears welled in Louis' eyes as he lifted the necklace from the box, cradling it in his palm with a reverence that spoke volumes. "Harry," he whispered, his voice choking with emotion. "It's wonderful..."

Harry's heart swelled with love as he watched Louis' reaction, his own eyes shining with unshed tears. "I just thought, maybe you could... I don't know, put a picture inside," he explained softly, his voice filled with vulnerability.

"Put it on me," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the pounding of their hearts.

As the clasp of the necklace clicked into place, Harry's touch was gentle yet sure, his fingers lingering against Louis' skin as if reluctant to let go. Louis felt a shiver of anticipation race down his spine as he met Harry's gaze, the intensity of their connection sparking a warmth that radiated from deep within.

With a soft smile, Harry leaned forward, his lips brushing against Louis' chest in a tender kiss. "That way, you can always keep me next to your heart," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Louis felt his breath catch in his throat at Harry's words, a surge of emotion welling up inside him. He reached out, his fingers tangling in Harry's hair as he pulled him closer, their lips meeting in a sweet and passionate kiss, bodies disappearing under the sheets.

Chapter 18: Plague

Chapter Text

After spending a weekend immersed in the liberating embrace of queer camaraderie, Harry found himself grappling with the weight of returning to the mundane reality of London.

Dropping Louis off at his doorstep had been a bittersweet farewell, their lingering kisses and embraces a silent testament to the depth of their connection. As Harry made his way back home, he couldn't shake the echoes of their shared moments, nor the physical reminders of their passion etched into his skin, bruises and scratches he hoped he would be able to hide.

The journey home was fraught with a sense of unease, his mind racing with thoughts of Camille and the impending confrontation awaiting him. The dimly lit streets offered little solace as he approached his house, the darkness of night enveloping him like a suffocating blanket.

With a heavy heart and a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, Harry entered the quiet confines of his home, the stillness of the night punctuated only by the soft glow emanating from the bedroom. His footsteps echoed in the empty hallway as he ascended the stairs, the weight of anticipation settling heavily upon him.

As he reached the closed bedroom door, Harry hesitated, his hand hovering uncertainty over the handle. A part of him longed for the comfort of solitude, the chance to retreat into the guest room and escape the impending confrontation. But the flickering light spilling from beneath the door served as a stark reminder of the conversation that awaited him on the other side.

Summoning his courage, Harry knocked tentatively before pushing open the door, the warm glow of candlelight bathing the room in an ethereal haze. His breath caught in his throat as he beheld Camille, her form illuminated by the soft flicker of flames, clad in vibrant red lingerie.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still as Harry struggled to process the sight before him. His heart pounded erratically in his chest, febrile as he met Camille's gaze. But beneath the facade of her seductive smile, he sensed the undercurrent of tension, the unspoken questions lingering in the air.

As Camille rose from the bed, her movements graceful yet guarded, Harry felt a pang of guilt tighten in his chest. He longed to bridge the distance between them, to erase the secrets that had driven them apart. But as the candles flickered and dimmed, casting shadows across the room, Harry knew that the path to reconciliation would not be easy.

As she approached him with longing in her eyes, her lips curved into a smile as she reached out to caress his cheek. "I missed you," she murmured, her voice soft and filled with longing.

But as her touch lingered, Harry's heart sank, a wave of guilt washing over him. He shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, his mind racing for an excuse to avoid her advances. "I...uh...I'm really tired, Camille," he stammered, his voice faltering as he attempted to pull away. “I need to shower.”

Camille's expression fell, hurt flickering in her eyes as she withdrew her hand. "But I thought...after being away all weekend..." her voice trailed off, her disappointment palpable.

Harry's heart clenched at the sight of her crestfallen expression, but he couldn't bring himself to reciprocate her affection. "I know, I know," he muttered, his words tinged with regret. "But I just need some rest, okay?"

Frustration bubbled up inside Camille as she watched Harry retreat further, his body language closing off to her. "Are you okay, Harry?"

Harry's gaze flickered away, his mind racing as he struggled to find an excuse to avoid her touch. "Yeah, I'm fine," he replied tersely, his tone strained as he pushed past her and placed his bag on the bed, pulling out his belongings.

She stayed behind him, watching, her gaze burning into his back and neck. “Did you have fun then? Did you win?” she asked, her voice tinged with curiosity.

“Win what?” he responded absently, putting away his perfume and taking off his ring, placing it on the bedside table.

She eyed the ring, its glimmer catching the candlelight, and snorted. “I saw Miles on Friday.”

Camille's voice broke the silence, her words hanging heavy in the air like a dark cloud. Harry froze in his tracks, his hand trembling and he almost dropped his aftershave on the ground, but instead, he clutched it tight. Not even ten minutes back home and already he wanted to escape, his whole body going through a whirlwind of emotions.

“And it’s funny to me because you said he was going with you,” she continued, her voice still oddly calm. “Also, it’s interesting to know that Louis went on a golf getaway in Oxfordshire.”

Her words pierced through him, the truth of her accusation sinking in like a dagger to his heart. He struggled to maintain his facade, to keep the truth hidden beneath layers of denial and deflection.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek, feeling the tears and panic building in his chest and throat. He closed his eyes for a moment, willing himself not to crumble and give it away. He could take the chance, turn around, and tell her everything. Leave the house in the middle of the night and join Louis. But somehow, the words were stuck somewhere between his heart and his throat.

“Why would you lie to me?” she asked, her voice cutting through the silence.

Harry's heart raced as he absorbed Camille's words, the sting of her accusation cutting deep. He struggled to maintain his composure, forcing himself to meet her gaze with a mask of forced calm.

"I didn't lie to you," he insisted, though his voice trembled slightly with uncertainty. "I just...I didn't tell you everything."

Camille's eyes narrowed, her disappointment evident as she crossed her arms defensively. "And what exactly is 'everything,' Harry?" she pressed, her voice tinged with frustration.

Harry hesitated, the weight of his guilt bearing down on him. "I spent the weekend away with friends and Louis was there. Happy ?" he asked, starting to lose patience.

A pang of hurt flickered across Camille's features before it was replaced by resignation. "So, you lied,"

Harry's throat tightened at her words, a lump forming as he struggled to find the right words. Anger simmered beneath the surface, mingling with his guilt. "Does it matter who I was with?" he countered, his tone defensive.

"You tell me." Camille's response was swift and unforgiving, her gaze hardening as she took a step back from him. "If you feel the need to lie, it must mean something, no ?”

"I don't want to discuss this right now," Harry deflected, attempting to gather his things to retreat to another room.

But Camille blocked his path, her frustration boiling over. "Why did you lie, Harry? Were you with another woman?!"

Harry laughed bitterly, the sound echoing hollowly in the tense silence of the room. "No, Camille," he replied, his voice tinged. "There's never going to be any other women."

But Camille didn't seem to register Harry's choice of wording, lost in her own pain and fear. "You shouldn't hang out with Louis," she suddenly muttered, crossing her arms tightly around herself. "He... I feel like he is... one of those."

"One of what?" Harry asked, his voice strained as he struggled to maintain his composure.

"Just... I feel like he is... gay," Camille whispered the last words, as if afraid of being overheard, her voice tinged with discomfort and uncertainty.

Harry's reaction was more furious than Camille expected. His chest tightened with anger and frustration, his jaw clenched as he struggled to contain the storm of emotions raging within him.

"What utter nonsense are you spouting?" Harry snapped, his voice laced with venom as he turned to face her. "Louis is not... he's not like that. He's not gay," he asserted vehemently, his words punctuated by the force of his anger. His fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles turning white with the intensity of his emotions. "How dare you accuse him of such absurdity?"

He felt a surge of irrational anger rising within him, fueled by fear and desperation. In a misguided attempt to prove his point, he launched into a tirade, his words dripping with disdain and disdainful arrogance.

"Gay people? Ridiculous! They're nothing but deviants, abominations," Harry spat out, his voice thick with contempt. "Louis is a respectable man, a gentleman. He's nothing like... like them," he declared, his words ringing hollow even to his own ears.

But as the words left his mouth, Harry felt a pang of guilt and self-loathing gnawing at him. He knew that his outburst was not only hurtful but also hypocritical, given his own secret relationship with Louis. Yet, in that moment, he was too overwhelmed by fear and denial to acknowledge the truth.

With a final, cutting remark, Harry turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, leaving Camille behind as he walked down the stairs and all but ran into his office, slamming the door behind him and sliding along it, bringing his knees to his chest, clasping his two hands on his mouth to cover the sound of his sobbing.

In the morning, Harry's hands trembled as he reached for his tie, his heart pounding erratically in his chest. The memory of the previous night's confrontation with Camille still lingered in his mind, filling him with a sense of dread and foreboding. But even more unsettling was the knowledge that he would soon have to face his father, knowing full well the repercussions that awaited him.

As he slipped into his suit jacket, his eyes drifted to the purple bruise on the inside of his arm, a vivid reminder of his time with Louis. Despite the fear gnawing at his insides, a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he traced the mark with his thumb, savouring the memory of their passionate encounter.

Quickly composing himself, Harry schooled his features into a mask of indifference as he tied his tie with practised precision. With a heavy sigh, he made his way downstairs, where Camille was already in the kitchen, her expression unreadable as she prepared breakfast for two.

Harry's stomach churned with anxiety, his appetite nonexistent as he grabbed his briefcase and hastily gathered his things for work. Ignoring Camille's sigh of resignation, he headed for the door, his mind consumed by thoughts of the impending confrontation with his father.

The drive to work felt interminable, each passing moment filled with a sense of dread and unease. Harry struggled to breathe, the weight of his guilt and fear pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket. Barely able to contain his trembling hands, he pulled over a few blocks from his office, desperate for some fresh air.

Rolling down the window, Harry sucked in a lungful of air, the cool breeze offering little relief from the turmoil raging within him. He closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing, but the panic continued to claw at him relentlessly.

With a heavy heart weighing him down, Harry pulled his car into the familiar parking spot at the office. Gone was his usual confident stride; instead, he entered with an air of palpable apprehension. Offering a quick nod to Susan, he slipped away into his office, the burden of his secrets pressing upon him like a weighty anchor.

Throughout the day, Harry remained secluded in his office, determined to tackle the mounting pile of neglected work left in his absence. Papers cluttered his desk, each one a testament to the turmoil brewing both within and outside his professional realm. Among them lay a document detailing individuals suspected of involvement with the GLF movement, their names etched in ominous ink.

As Harry's gaze fell upon Zayn's name on the list, a surge of solidarity coursed through him. With a swift and clandestine movement, he reached for a pen and discreetly erased Zayn's name from the paper, a small act of defiance against the oppressive forces seeking to silence voices of dissent.

The paper itself was a memorandum outlining the ongoing investigations into individuals believed to be associated with the Gay Liberation Front. Each name represented a target for surveillance and potential prosecution, a stark reminder of the dangers faced by those daring to challenge societal norms and fight for queer rights. And in that moment, Harry's actions served as a silent declaration of his allegiance to the cause, a subtle yet significant gesture in support of his clandestine comrades.

Finally, as the workday drew to a close, Harry prepared to leave, hoping to escape the suffocating atmosphere of his office. But before he could make his escape, his father summoned him to his office, the anger evident in his steely gaze.

"Harry, explain yourself," his father demanded, his voice sharp with frustration. "You vanished for an entire weekend without so much as a word. This behaviour is unacceptable."

Harry's heart sank as he braced himself for the inevitable confrontation. “I just went away with some friends from Oxford. Wanted to take a bit of pressure away,”

“Harry, you must understand that your responsibilities here at the company come first. You cannot simply disappear for days on end without any explanation." his father pressed, his voice dripping with disdain. "When are you going to fulfil your obligations as a husband? You are not a kid anymore, you can’t spend your days longing under the sun.”

Not able to give any answer, Harry stayed still in front of the desk, his hands clenched tightly together at his front and his head slightly bowed down.

“Answer me when I speak to you.”

“I understand, It won’t happen again.”

“Who are you talking to ?” Desmond asked, his voice denied any kindness.

Harry gulped, “I am sorry,’’ He bit his cheeks, feeling his jaw clenched as he muttered, “Sir.”

The sound of a stack of paper slapping against the desk made him jolt slightly, his eyes raising for the article his father presented him. “See this ?’’

Britain threatened by gay virus plague

The killer AIDS virus is now spreading at the rate of about 100 cases a day in London alone.

“This is what we are fighting against, son. Not morals, not tradition. It’s a sickness, and it’s spreading.”

The air in the office grew heavy with tension as Harry struggled to maintain his composure in the face of his father's tirade. Papers were thrown at him, each one a reminder of the expectations weighing heavily upon him. Harry blinked away the tears of frustration he felt building up, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

“Do you still think that what we do is wrong ? Do you really want this kingdom to become a place of debauchery and sexuality?”

But Harry's resolve remained steadfast, despite the pressure mounting around him.

With a sigh, Desmond rose from his chair and threw a brown envelope on the desk, nodding for Harry to take it. When he opened it, slacks of bills were sitting inside. With uncomprehension, Harry frowned and looked for his father's explanation.

"I believe it's time for you and Camille to take a proper honeymoon. It's been over a year since your marriage, and it's high time you start thinking about your future, Harry. Children, heirs to the family legacy."

Harry felt his blood run cold at his father's words, the weight of his expectations crushing down on him like a ton of bricks. "But sir, I-I'm not sure if-"

In a fit of rage, his father lashed out, striking Harry across the face with a resounding slap. Shocked and shaken, Harry staggered and bowed his head further, willing the tears not to fall in front of the man. “No excuses, Harry. It's time to fulfil your duties as a husband and a future father. I'll make the arrangements for your honeymoon, and I expect you to comply."

Shocked and shaken, Harry staggered out of the office, his mind reeling with the weight of his father's words and the pain of his physical assault.

Alone in his car, Harry was consumed by a whirlwind of emotions. The sudden fear of AIDS added another stone to the weight he had to carry on his shoulders and the overwhelming pressure to conform to his father's expectations threatened to suffocate him.

As expected, his father took it upon himself to orchestrate the honeymoon, ensuring it would be a lavish and extravagant affair befitting the family's stature. With meticulous planning, he arranged for Harry and Camille to embark on a week-long excursion to an opulent resort nestled in the picturesque countryside of Italy.

Louis hadn’t taken the news happily, of course. But the night Harry had stumbled on his front door, drunk and broken, the trace of his father’s fingers on his cheek, he had held him tightly, whispering sweet nothing in his hair.

Upon their arrival, Harry couldn't help but feel overwhelmed by the grandeur of their surroundings. The luxury accommodations, lavish meals, and breathtaking scenery seemed to envelop them in a world of extravagance and excess.

As the sun dipped below the horizon on their first evening, Harry and Camille stood on the balcony of their luxurious suite, overlooking the sprawling vineyards that stretched out before them.

"It's breathtaking, isn't it?" Camille murmured, her voice soft with awe as she leaned against the railing, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

Harry forced a smile, his gaze drifting past the picturesque landscape to the distant horizon. "Yes, it's... it's lovely," he replied, his tone strained as he struggled to muster enthusiasm for their surroundings.

Throughout their honeymoon, Camille made every effort to infuse their days with romance and intimacy, her every gesture and word laden with longing and anticipation. She would reach for his hand as they strolled through the quaint cobblestone streets of nearby villages, her touch gentle yet insistent, as if trying to anchor him to her side. But despite her efforts, Harry found himself drifting further and further away, his thoughts consumed by memories of Louis and the life he had left behind. Each whispered endearment, each lingering touch from Camille only served to underscore the gaping chasm that separated them.

As the days passed, Harry found himself retreating further into himself, seeking solace in moments of solitude amidst the bustling activities of their honeymoon. He would spend hours wandering the labyrinthine corridors of the resort, his footsteps echoing against the polished marble floors as he grappled with the turmoil raging within him.

Meanwhile, Camille watched with growing unease as her husband slipped further and further away from her grasp. She would gaze at him across the dinner table, her eyes clouded with apprehension, as if searching for some sign of the man she had married amidst the distant shadows that haunted his gaze. Yet despite her fears, Camille remained determined to salvage their fledgling marriage, clinging to the hope that she could somehow reignite the spark that had once burned so brightly between them.

Each night, as they retired to their luxurious suite, Harry's heart would sink with dread at the prospect of intimacy with his new bride. The charade became increasingly unbearable as he struggled to maintain the facade of a loving husband while concealing the truth of his own desires.

The night he was expected to make love to Camille was the darkest moment of Harry's life. As he lay beside her, consumed by guilt and shame, he felt the weight of his deception pressing down upon him like a suffocating blanket. With every touch, every caress, Harry felt his soul recoiling in anguish, longing for the freedom to be true to himself. Unable to bear the torment of his own lies, Harry sought solace in the numbing embrace of alcohol. As Camille drifted off to sleep, Harry would slip away into the darkness, drowning his sorrows in a sea of liquor and regret.

Their honeymoon became a battleground of silent struggles and unspoken truths, a fleeting respite from the storm that raged within Harry's soul. And as they prepared to depart from the gilded confines of their sanctuary, both Harry and Camille found themselves adrift in a sea of uncertainty, their hearts torn between duty and desire, longing and regret.

Chapter 19: Almost

Chapter Text

Upon Harry's return to work from his honeymoon, the atmosphere felt heavy with tension and apprehension. The usual bustling office seemed quieter than usual, and whispers lingered in the air like shadows. Harry sensed something was amiss, but it wasn't until he opened the door of his office and found Niall apparently waiting for him and jolting in his chair as soon as their eyes met that he understood that something was happening.

"Harry, mate, it’s bad," Niall said, his voice filled with urgency.

"What happened?"

Niall's face darkened as he explained, "While you were away, there was a massive march for queer rights organised by the GLF and other activists. It was meant to be peaceful, but things got out of hand. The police showed up in force to control the situation, and, well... it turned into chaos. Loads of people were arrested, Harry. Some of them for no reason at all."

Harry's heart sank at the news, a sense of dread washing over him. He knew the risks involved in advocating for queer rights, but hearing about the scale of the arrests left him reeling.

When he finally reached his desk, his pulse quickened as he saw the list of names laid out before him. Each name represented someone caught up in the turmoil of the march, someone whose fate now hung in the balance. He narrowed his eyes, desperately searching for Louis’ name and letting a long sigh out when he couldn’t find it. But as his eyes reached the bottom of the list, he froze.

“Niall, I need to- I’ll be away from the office today.” He said, “I have something to do.”

Niall frowned but didn’t seem to question it much. Biting on the skin around his nail, he nodded. ‘’You have an appointment at four. Just make sure to be back in time. You know your father.”

“Yeah,” He said without really listening, his mind racing as he grappled with the gravity of the situation.

As soon as the door closed behind Niall, and without hesitation, Harry reached for the telephone on his desk, his fingers trembling as he dialled a familiar number. He needed answers, and he needed them now.

Half an hour later, Harry's footsteps echoed on the pavement as he made his way through the bustling streets of Soho, his heart pounding with each step. He finally spotted Liam standing on a quiet corner, his expression grave as he waited for Harry's arrival.

"Liam," Harry called out, relief flooding through him as he approached. "What's going on? Why was Zayn arrested?"

“Not here.” Liam said and nodded for Harry to follow.

They ended in the corner of a coffee shop, choosing the table the farther away from the crowd and the counter, nestled against a dark wall.

Liam sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair before meeting Harry's gaze. "It's bad, Harry. Really bad," he began, his tone heavy with regret.

Harry's heart sank further, bracing himself for the news he dreaded. "Tell me," he urged, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Lots of people got arrested at the march, as you know," Liam explained, his eyes reflecting the weight of the situation. "And... I had to arrest Zayn."

Harry's stomach churned with dread as he absorbed Liam's words. It felt like a punch to the gut, a realisation of his worst fears coming true. "Why?"

"He was there, tagging the streets with paint," Liam replied, his expression pained. “We were a group, the guys saw him and they ran for him and I couldn’t.. I knew they wouldn’t have been gentle with him. And you know Zayn,’’ He chuckled wetly, looking away to scold his features. ‘’I had to handcuff him in front of everyone, to make sure they believed me.’’

"I... I can't believe this," Harry murmured, his thoughts spinning with a mixture of disbelief and guilt. "I'm sorry, Liam," He added softly, placing a comforting hand atop of Liam’s one, before with a jolt, Liam retracted his hand and looked around.

Harry's mind flashed back to his father's suspicions about Zayn, the fear of exposure that had haunted him for so long. He knew he couldn't let Zayn face this alone.

"My father... he already had suspicions about Zayn," Harry admitted, his voice wavering with uncertainty. "But I... I erased his name once. I didn't think..."

Liam's expression softened with understanding, but Harry could see the weight of the dilemma reflected in his eyes.

"The only solution I can think of is to clear his detention by issuing a fine for tagging the streets and damaging public property. It would still leave a mark on his record, but I could arrange to have it expunged after a week or two," Liam explained.

Harry nodded, grateful for Liam's willingness to help. "Thank you," he murmured, feeling a surge of relief wash over him.

Liam returned the nod, his gaze filled with sympathy. "It's good of you to do this for him," he remarked, a small smile of admiration playing at the corners of his lips.

Harry shrugged modestly, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. "I know he doesn't exactly appreciate it, and I'm not doing it to win his favour. I just... If it were Louis in his shoes, and I was in yours, I'd hope someone would do the same for him," he admitted, his voice laced with sincerity.

Around their cup of tea, they delved deeper into the legal intricacies, searching for loopholes and precedents that could work in Zayn's favour. After an hour of intense discussion, Harry checked his watch and sighed. ‘’I need to head back. I have an appointment.’’

Liam nodded with a knowing smile, “Good luck with that.’’

Harry checked his watch, his frown deepening as he noticed he was late for the appointment. Hastening his steps, he entered his office and muttered an apology as he closed the door behind him.

"Sorry, Mister William, I would have come earlier if I knew," Harry offered, his tone tinged with weariness as he moved to his desk.

The man seated in the chair across from him remained silent, his features obscured by a hat pulled low over his brow. But as he lifted his hat, shock reverberated through Harry as he dropped his coffee, the cup clattering to the floor forgotten.

Harry's heart lurched as Louis sat before him, impeccably dressed in a dark suit, but his usual charm was marred by the bruises marrying his features.

Without hesitation, he rushed to Louis' side, concern etched on his features. "What happened?!" he demanded, his voice laced with worry.

A single glance from Louis towards the window conveyed the danger of their situation. Understanding the unspoken message, Harry moved swiftly to draw the curtains closed before locking the door securely. Returning to Louis' side, he knelt beside him, his eyes searching Louis' bruised face for answers.

As Harry knelt beside Louis, his heart raced with a mixture of concern and confusion. Louis, usually so vibrant and confident, now sat before him bruised and sombre, an air of vulnerability surrounding him.

"What happened, Louis?" Harry pressed, his voice low with urgency, his mind racing with possibilities.

Louis hesitated, his gaze flickering with a myriad of emotions before settling on determination. "You should sit," he began, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry's brow furrowed in concern as he listened intently to Louis' words, standing up and going behind his desk as Louis had asked, taking place on his leather chair. He felt uncomfortable knowing Louis was here, in a place where Harry was forced to maintain a facade, where anyone could see or hear them. Nerves gnawed at him, but after a week without contact, having Louis in front of him, even if only for a minute, was worth any risk.

"This case you’ve been working on,’’ Louis started.

‘You went to the manifestation,’ Harry stated, unable to contain his curiosity and need for answers.

Louis pursed his lips, clearly holding back the words he wanted to say, before sighing. “If you could let me talk.’’

Harry frowned but leaned back in his chair, absently playing with the wedding ring on his finger.

“This case you’ve been working on, what did you find about it?’’

“I don’t-’’ Harry stopped, observing Louis in silence. ‘’I don’t understand.’’

“Tell me what you found about it,’’ Louis urged, his tone almost pleading.

Reluctantly, Harry retrieved his briefcase from the floor, placing it on the desk and pulling out the stack of documents he had compiled. Articles, news reports, personal information on the person arrested during the manifestation—everything spilled out onto the desk.

“We don’t have any names. I mean, my father, he is the one completely obsessed with it. I tried to fight him on it as soon as it started, but ...’’ Harry's voice trailed off as Louis remained silent, offering no comfort or response. ‘’We don’t know who runs it, nor do we know how they communicate or who is the spokesperson. But for now, we know it’s a large group of men and women with relations in America. We know there’s secret meetings, and actual action against the law.”

Louis' eyes left the documents to settle on Harry’s face, a heavy silence stretching between them. Then, finally, he spoke. “It’s me.’’

“What?’’ Harry's frown deepened, darting his eyes around the room before focusing back on Louis.

“I'm the leader of the Gay Liberation Front. It’s me you’re fighting against."

Slowly, Harry rose from the ground as the words kept replaying in his brain. He stood there, watching down on Louis for a moment before he started pacing, his palm grazing at his mouth, his neck. Harry's emotions swirled within him, a turbulent mix of anger, fear, and pride.

"I'm fighting for the abolition of Section 28," Louis explained, his voice tinged with urgency. "I can't stand by while our community is oppressed and silenced. I'm not going to stop until we see real change."

"But... Louis, I've been fighting against the GLF," Harry admitted, his voice filled with confusion and turmoil.

"I had to tell you, Harry," Louis continued, his gaze unwavering. "Because I need you to understand the risks I've taken, the danger I'm in. And because... I trust you."

Harry tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling as he racked his brain for something to say. It felt as each day passed and brought to him more and more problems and issues he didn’t know how to deal with.

“They got Zayn for f*ck sake Harry!” Louis said, likely trying to make him react. ‘’Look at my face.’’ He then said, closer, standing right behind. When Harry didn’t move, Louis forced him to spin around, holding him by his forearms. ‘’Look.’’

Pinching his lips together, Harry took in sight the bruises on Louis’ chin and the scratch next to his eyebrow, his brows drawing together and shoulders slumping at the realisation.

“They beat people up for simply speaking. We are not criminals, we are not doing anything wrong.’’ Louis pleaded, like he was trying to convince Harry too, his fingers digging in his biceps. ‘’Does it feel wrong when you are with me ?”

Another frown of pain etched Harry’s face. ‘’No,’’ He answered weakly. ‘’No, it could never..’’

“If they want to bring us down, they can try. I won’t stop. Force me to dissolve this group, I’ll build another one.’’ Louis said, confident and resolute. ‘’We have people all around the world using our names, standing with us. I won’t stop Harry, I’ll never stop fighting for freedom.’’

The weight of Louis' words hung heavily in the air, the gravity of the situation sinking in as Harry realised the magnitude of Louis' trust in him. He felt a swell of emotion, a mixture of pride and anxiety swirling within him. Despite the risks and the challenges ahead, he knew he couldn't turn his back on Louis or the fight for justice.

Taking a deep breath, Harry squeezed Louis' hand tightly. "I'm with you, Louis," he vowed, his voice resolute. "Whatever it takes."

The rain hammered against the windows of the dimly lit pub, creating a sombre ambiance inside. Harry's heart pounded as he pushed open the door, Niall close on his heels. Liam and Louis were already settled in a secluded booth at the far end, their faces obscured by shadows.

As they approached, Harry couldn't ignore the tension etched into Louis' features, remnants of their previous encounter still visible. Liam's eyes widened as he saw Niall, but with a nod and a small smile from Harry, Liam relaxed.

“He knows,” Harry assured.

"Thanks for coming," Liam said in a low voice, his gaze darting around the room.

As they sat down, Niall wasted no time getting to the point. "What's the plan then?"

Liam leaned forward, his expression determined. "First, we need to get Zayn out of jail," he stated firmly.

Niall nodded, concern evident on his face. "And we need to do it without your father finding out," he added, glancing at Harry.

Harry winced at the reminder of the risk they faced. "We'll need to be cautious," he agreed, already formulating a plan. “I erased Zayn’s name from the list of suspects when they planned to raid his pub last week.” Harry didn’t notice Louis' surprise, too focused on Liam. “I found some files; the best I could do is charge him with degradation of public property. It will stay on his record, but it’s better than where he is now.”

Louis sighed, taking a sip of his beer. "Is that enough? He's a person of colour; they might not let him go so easily."

"They might set the bail higher than usual," Harry conceded.

The table lapsed into a heavy silence, Liam's gaze fixed pensively on his bruised hands, his exhaustion evident in the dark circles under his eyes. Harry sympathised with him deeply, though he himself hadn't fully come to terms with the gravity of their situation. Yet, he knew he had to stand by them, even if it meant operating from the shadows.

Niall broke the silence with a weary question. "Can I ask, though? How exactly do you plan to abolish Section 28? Or persuade the government to pass laws in favour of queer rights?"

Louis smiled, his eyes gleaming with determination. "We organise, we protest, we make our voices heard," he declared, his conviction ringing through his words. "The Gay Liberation Front is a movement, a catalyst for change. By taking to the streets, by shouting out what we want and what we need, we force society to confront the realities we face. Do you know, some people are completely unaware that simply being who we are can result in violence? Take AIDS, they labelled it as the 'Gay Plague.' It's as if they blame us for our own suffering. We must fight against this injustice. And we won't rest until we've achieved genuine progress."

Niall nodded in understanding, his respect for Louis growing with each impassioned word. Encouraged, Louis pressed on.

"Zayn brought forth symbols," Louis continued, his tone softening with reminiscence. "The Pink Triangle, and a rainbow. It symbolises our resilience, our defiance against oppression."

Intrigued, Niall leaned in closer, eager to learn.

"In World War II, the Nazis used the Pink Triangle to identify and persecute hom*osexuals," Louis explained, his voice a blend of softness and determination. "But we've reclaimed it. We wear it proudly as a reminder of our history, our struggles, and our strength."

Niall's eyes widened in realisation as he grasped the weight of the symbol.

"It's a symbol of solidarity," Louis continued, his passion evident. "It's our way of saying we won't be silenced, we won't be cowed. More and more of us are getting it tattooed on our ankles – a visible testament to our pride and our unwavering resolve to fight for our rights."

As if to illustrate, Louis lifted his leg, pulling up his trousers and rolling down his sock to reveal a small triangle tattooed on his ankle, his thumb gently tracing its outline.

"It's incredible, Louis," Niall murmured, a sense of awe colouring his voice. "I had no idea..."

“It’s all Zayn.” Louis beamed proudly. "There's so much more to our community than meets the eye, Niall," he said, his voice tinged with emotion. "And together, we'll change the world."

Harry listened intently, his mind spinning with the implications of Louis' words. But before he could fully process them, Liam's sudden declaration broke the reverie.

"I'm quitting," Liam blurted out suddenly, shocking everyone at the table.

"I can't keep doing this," he continued, his voice heavy with emotion. He glanced at Louis, then at Harry, before explaining, "Zayn said I could work at the pub with him and stay at his place until I figure things out."

Louis looked concerned. "Is it safe?" he asked, his worry palpable. "Your father won't just let you walk away."

"It's either this or one day he'll ask me to put a bullet in someone's head just for being gay," Liam replied, his tone bitter. "I can't... It's hypocritical for me to stand on the sidewalk, watching my own protests for our rights, when I'm the one blocking them from reaching it."

Liam's words struck Harry deeply, stirring something within him. He felt his heart race as he grappled with the weight of Liam's decision and the realisation of his own role in perpetuating injustice.

"I'm going to divorce her," Harry declared, his voice trembling with resolve.

The table fell silent, all eyes turning to Harry as he continued, "I'm going to divorce her and finally reveal who I am. What I am."

"Harry, no," Louis began, but Harry shook his head, refusing to meet anyone's gaze.

"I can't keep living this lie," Harry insisted, his voice firm. "How many men before me have suffered in silence? And how many after me will do the same? I refuse to be one of them. I refuse to die without ever trying to be free."

Turning to Louis, his eyes filled with uncertainty, Harry asked, "Would you... If things go wrong, would you stand by me?"

"Yes," Louis replied without hesitation, his voice trembling with emotion. "Yes, Harry. Always."

After their meeting, Harry offered to drive Louis back to his flat. The tension in the car was palpable as Harry's mind raced with worry, his thoughts consumed by the fear that his absence during his honeymoon with Camille had strained his relationship with Louis. As they navigated through the city streets, Harry stole glances at Louis, trying to gauge his mood.

Louis, sitting quietly beside him, seemed lost in his own thoughts, his expression unreadable. Harry's heart ached with the need for reassurance, the desire to feel Louis close to him once more.

When they finally reached Louis' building, Harry's stomach churned with nerves. As Louis turned to him with a soft smile, Harry couldn't help but feel a surge of relief. "Would you like to come in for a coffee?" Louis asked, his voice warm with invitation.

Grateful for the invitation, Harry nodded. As they entered Louis' apartment, Harry couldn't contain the surge of emotions welling up within him. With a quiet click, Harry closed the door behind them, enveloping them in privacy. Without a word, he reached for Louis, cradling him in his arms and pressing their lips together in a fervent kiss. Louis hummed contently, melting into Harry's embrace.

"I missed you," Harry whispered between kisses, his breath mingling with Louis'.

Louis's fingers smoothed over Harry's shirt, his touch gentle. "Are you sure?" he asked, uncertainty colouring his voice. "What you said at the pub... divorcing her and telling them..."

Harry gently tilted Louis' chin upward, meeting his gaze with conviction. "I love you, and I want to be with you. No matter what it takes."

For a moment, Louis blushed and avoided Harry's gaze, a smile playing at his lips.

"In fact, I’m going to do it now," Harry declared, excitement in his eyes. "I'll go home, tell her everything, and pack a bag to come back here. Then we'll figure out the rest of my things."

“Harry-’’

“I could even bring lunch, or... I don’t know. You could prepare drinks for us.”

“Harry, just li-’’

“And I’ll search for a flat. I’ll finally live alone, by myself. I’ll be able to listen to the Rolling Stones, hang paintings on the walls!”

As Louis followed him to the door, Harry lost in his excitement, Louis's hand on his back brought him back to reality. With a soft touch, Louis calmed him down instantly, causing Harry to falter in his steps and turn around.

“You don’t want me to come back here? Oh, I didn’t think this through. I can go to a hotel and I’ll-’’

With a soft kiss, Harry's words were cut off. ‘’You breathe and you listen,’’ Louis said, patting Harry's cheek with amusem*nt. “You have to be sure, darling. It could go wrong. You have to know it’s probably not going to be a pleasurable moment.’’

“I know all that,” Harry said, turning to face Louis again. “But I don’t want to wait. I don’t want to waste my time. Our time.”

A glimmer of hope sparked in Louis' eyes as he listened to Harry's words. "Just promise me you're ready for whatever may come," he urged, his voice tinged with concern.

With a nod, Harry squeezed Louis' hand tightly. "I'm ready," he declared, a sense of excitement coursing through him. "I'm going to go tell Camille right now. I want to be free, Louis, and I want to be with you."

Louis smiled softly, his eyes shining with love and admiration. "I'll be here waiting for you," he promised, his voice filled with unwavering support.

With a final kiss, Harry left Louis' apartment, his heart brimming with hope for the future. As he made his way to Camille, he couldn't help but feel a sense of liberation wash over him. For the first time in his life, he was choosing his own path, guided by the love he shared with Louis. And no matter what challenges lay ahead, he knew he was ready to face them, hand in hand with the man he loved.

Hours later, the soft click of the door reverberated through the warm flat as Harry stepped inside. His heart weighed heavily with the conversation he had just had with Camille. The sight of the red wine and two glasses waiting on the coffee table made his stomach churn with guilt. Swallowing hard, he ventured further into the flat, searching for Louis.

In the bedroom, Louis sorting through a stack of clothes, his movements hesitant and distracted. The sight of Louis, preparing space for Harry's belongings, a gesture of love and affection that now felt like a cruel irony.

And when Louis noticed him, he smiled bright, his eyes filled with hope. But as he noticed him, with his dishevelled look, his red rimmed eyes and the absence of his bags, the warmth in his smile faltered, replaced by a look of concern.

With agonising slowness, Louis set the clothes aside on the bed, his lips trembling with unspoken words. The air between them crackled with tension, the silence echoing with unspoken fears.

Louis fidgeted on his feet, his anxiety building with each passing moment. "What—" He cleared his throat, his voice barely a whisper. "What did she say?"

Harry's chin trembled, his eyes brimming with unshed tears as he met Louis' gaze. The pain and conflict etched on his face tore at Louis' heart, urging him to reach out and offer comfort. But he remained rooted to the spot, his fists clenched with apprehension.

Gazing up at the ceiling, Harry drew in a shuddering breath, struggling to find the words to convey the truth. "She um—" His voice cracked, and he shook his head, unable to meet Louis' eyes.

"Harry..." Louis called out softly, his own eyes burning with unshed tears.

"She's pregnant,"

Harry stood frozen.

The pain radiating from Louis' eyes shattered his heart into a million pieces. He yearned to reach out, to pull Louis into his arms and shelter him from the pain, but he knew it was futile. Their love, once vibrant and full of promise, now lay shattered at their feet, a casualty of circ*mstance and fate.

The words hung heavy in the air, the silence that followed deafening in its intensity. Louis recoiled, taking a step back as if to create more distance between them. A bitter smile played on his lips as he struggled to hold back his tears. "Of course," he murmured, resignation weighing heavily in his voice. "I should have known."

Struggling to find his voice amidst the turmoil in his chest, Harry opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat like shards of glass. His dreams of freedom, so close within his grasp, slipped away like sand through his fingers, leaving him empty and desolate.

Louis' voice, barely a whisper, shattered the silence. "I—" His words faltered, his lips trembling with emotion. "Please close the door when you leave," he said softly, sidestepping Harry and making his way to the door.

Tears flowed freely down Harry's cheeks as he watched Louis retreat, each step a painful reminder of the love they had lost. "Lou—" he choked out, stumbling after him, desperation lacing his voice. "P-Please, just—"

Louis paused, his hand clutching the keys tightly, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. As he turned to face Harry, the weight of their shared pain hung heavy in the air. Despite the anguish etched on his face, Louis managed a faint smile.

"You were my person," Louis began, his voice trembling with emotion, "but you were not mine to keep. Only to hold, to love, just for a while." His words pierced Harry's heart like a dagger, each syllable a painful reminder of what could never be. "You were almost it, the person I would have spent forever with, without a doubt, but that dream was never ours to have.”

With a heavy heart, Louis turned away, his footsteps fading into the distance as he left his own flat. The sound of the door closing echoed in the silence, sealing their farewell with finality.

Harry sank to his knees, his palms pressed against the cold surface of the door. Tears streamed down his face, his body racked with sobs as he released the pent-up anguish and despair. In that moment of raw vulnerability, he surrendered to the overwhelming tide of grief, mourning the loss of a love that was never meant to be.

Chapter 20: The aftermath

Chapter Text

Harry felt like he was wandering through a fog, lost and directionless in the wake of his shattered relationship with Louis. Every day was a struggle, a battle against the overwhelming tide of grief and despair that threatened to consume him.

It had been weeks since Harry's world came crashing down around him, yet the pain remained as raw and agonising as ever. Each morning brought with it a crushing weight of emptiness, a hollow ache that seemed to grow deeper with each passing day. He found himself going through the motions of daily life, his movements sluggish and mechanical as he dragged himself through the endless cycle of work and sleep.

But beneath the facade of normalcy, Harry was drowning in a sea of despair, his heart torn asunder by the loss of the love he had once held so dear. His appetite had all but disappeared, the mere thought of food turning his stomach sour with nausea. Meals became a formality, a chore to be endured rather than enjoyed. He would pick at his food, pushing it around his plate with little interest before ultimately pushing it away, the taste of ash lingering on his tongue.

Sleep offered little respite from his torment, his nights haunted by restless dreams and fitful slumber. He would toss and turn in his bed, the sheets twisted around his limbs like chains, his mind racing with memories of Louis and the life they could have shared. And when sleep finally did come, it offered no solace, no escape from the relentless ache in his heart.

His parents, oblivious to the turmoil raging within him, rejoiced at the news of Camille's pregnancy, their laughter and tears filling the house with a bittersweet symphony of emotions. But for Harry, the announcement served only to deepen the chasm of despair that had consumed his soul, a painful reminder of the life he had lost and the future that now lay before him, uncertain and bleak.

Gemma, ever perceptive and attuned to her brother's pain, watched with growing concern as Harry withdrew further into himself, his once vibrant spirit dimmed by the weight of his grief. She tried to reach out to him, to offer words of comfort and solace, but Harry remained resolutely closed off, his pain too deep and too raw to be assuaged by mere words.

Meanwhile, Camille remained blissfully oblivious to Harry's inner turmoil, her mind consumed with thoughts of nursery decorations and baby names. She pulled him along on shopping trips, dragging him from store to store in search of the perfect crib or stroller, her excitement palpable as she made plans for their growing family.

One night, in a desperate bid to drown out the relentless ache in his heart, Harry found himself stumbling through the darkened streets of London, his steps unsteady with alcohol and despair. With each passing moment, he felt himself slipping further and further away from reality, lost in a haze of grief and longing. Finally, he found himself standing outside the door of Louis' former flat, his heart pounding in his chest as he pounded on the door with desperate urgency. But the only response was the hollow echo of his own desperation, the empty silence of a home long abandoned.

As Harry stood alone in the darkness, the weight of his despair pressing down upon him like a suffocating blanket, he felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. In that moment of crushing loneliness, he realised with a sinking heart that there was no going back, no undoing the pain and heartache that had torn them apart.

In a desperate bid to distract himself from the pain, Harry threw himself into his work with a fervour bordering on obsession. He buried himself in mountains of paperwork, immersing himself in the minutiae of legal jargon and court proceedings. It was a welcome distraction, a temporary reprieve from the crushing weight of his own thoughts.

The news of Zayn's release from jail offered a glimmer of hope in the darkness, a small victory amidst the chaos of Harry's crumbling world. He felt a surge of relief wash over him as he watched him walk free, his heart swelling with gratitude for the role he had played in securing Zayn's freedom. But any sense of triumph was short-lived, overshadowed by the icy reception he received from Liam and Zayn.

Despite the shattered fragments of his heart, Harry clung desperately to the flickering ember of hope that burned within him. It was the promise of fatherhood, the prospect of bringing new life into the world, that kept him tethered to the fragile thread of existence. Even though the very thought of becoming a father had been the catalyst for his despair, Harry found himself unable to let go of the idea, as if it were the lifeline that kept him from drowning in a sea of sorrow.

In the depths of his anguish, Harry yearned for redemption, a chance to break free from the shackles of his past and forge a new path for himself and his child. He felt a fierce determination coursing through his veins, a burning desire to be the kind of father he had never had, to provide his child with the love and support he had so sorely lacked in his own upbringing.

For Harry, the prospect of fatherhood was more than just a fleeting hope; it was a lifeline, a beacon of light in the darkness that threatened to engulf him. He clung to it with a fervour bordering on desperation, as if the mere act of bringing a child into the world could somehow wash away the stains of his past and pave the way for a brighter future.

And so, Harry remained by Camille's side, playing his part in the charade of their marriage. The absence of Louis loomed over him like a heavy shadow, a constant reminder of the unattainable love that had slipped through his fingers. The thought of never seeing Louis again provided a twisted sort of comfort to Harry, offering him a semblance of stability in the chaos of his fractured heart.

In the quiet moments of the night, as he lay entwined with Camille in their bed, Harry found himself teetering on the edge of reality and illusion. The lines between truth and fiction blurred in his mind, tangled in the web of expectations and obligations that had been woven around him since birth. Sometimes, the notion of being with a man seemed absurd to him, like a fleeting fantasy born of darkness and delusion.

Yet, as he traced the contours of Camille's sleeping form, Harry couldn't shake the gnawing sense of emptiness that gnawed at his soul. He longed for something more, something that had eluded him for so long, but the prospect of stepping into the unknown filled him with a bone-deep terror.

The soft glow of candlelight cast a warm, comforting glow over the cosy bistro where Harry and Niall had chosen to meet for dinner. As they settled into their seats, Niall couldn't help but notice the weary lines etched into Harry's face, the shadows beneath his eyes betraying the turmoil that raged within him.

Niall reached across the table, concern evident in his gaze as he clasped Harry's hand in his own. "Mate, you're not looking too good," he said softly, his voice tinged with worry. "Is everything alright?"

Harry offered a weak smile in response, but it failed to reach his eyes. "I'm fine, Niall. Just a bit tired, that's all," he replied, his voice lacking its usual vibrancy.

But Niall wasn't convinced. He had known Harry long enough to recognize the signs of distress, and it was clear to him that his friend was struggling beneath the weight of his own burdens. Leaning in closer, Niall spoke in a hushed tone. "Harry, You can’t keep going like this. You can talk to me, you know. Whatever it is, I'm here for you."

Harry hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering uncertainly before finally meeting Niall's steady gaze. "I’m fine."

Niall listened in silence as Harry poured out his heart, his own heart heavy with empathy for his friend's pain. He knew that Harry was caught in the throes of a tumultuous internal struggle, torn between the life he had built for himself and the longing for something more.

"Listen," Niall said gently, his voice tinged with urgency. "You can't keep living like this. It's tearing you apart, mate."

But Harry shook his head, his expression resolute. "I can't just walk away, Niall. I can't abandon my child, my responsibilities."

Niall sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "I understand, Harry. But what about your own happiness? You can't sacrifice yourself for the sake of others."

"I'm not sacrificing myself," Harry insisted, his voice tinged with desperation. "I made a commitment to Camille, to our child. I have to see it through."

Niall's gaze softened as he reached out to squeeze Harry's hand reassuringly. "I get it, mate. But you have to ask yourself, is this really what you want? Is this the life you envisioned for yourself?"

Harry fell silent, his thoughts whirling in turmoil as he wrestled with the weight of Niall's words. For so long, he had clung to the illusion of stability, to the idea that he could find happiness in the life he had built for himself. But now, faced with the stark reality of his own unhappiness, he couldn't help but wonder if there might be another path, a chance for him to find the peace and fulfilment he so desperately craved.

"You know what Louis used to say to me?"

Harry’s jaw clenched as he was toying with his food. “Nia-’’

‘’To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.”

Harry fell silent, his thoughts whirling in turmoil as he wrestled with the weight of Niall's words. For so long, he had clung to the illusion of stability, to the idea that he could find happiness in the life he had built for himself. But now, faced with the stark reality of his own unhappiness, he couldn't help but wonder if there might be another path, a chance for him to find the peace and fulfilment he so desperately craved.

As Camille departed for a doctor's appointment with both their mothers in tow, Harry found himself alone at home, engulfed in a sea of legal documents and the comforting embrace of bourbon. The silence of the house was disrupted by a knock, jolting Harry from his solitary reverie.

As the urgent knock echoed through the silent house, Harry's heart sank. He wasn't in the mood for visitors, especially not now, when he was already drowning himself in a sea of bourbon and legal papers. Frowning and slightly inebriated, he reluctantly made his way to the door, a sense of foreboding settling over him.

His frown deepened as he swung the door open, his eyes meeting Eleanor's troubled gaze. Despite her impeccable appearance, her face betrayed a tumult of emotions—worry, anxiety, torment.

"Hi," she began, her voice tinged with apprehension. "I'm sorry to disturb you. But, can I enter?"

Harry hesitated, his instinctual response to shut the door and retreat into the safety of solitude. But something in Eleanor's demeanour gave him pause, a glimmer of hope that perhaps she held the answers he so desperately sought. "Camille is not here," he replied curtly, his tone tinged with irritation.

"I know," Eleanor admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "That's why I'm here."

Harry's brow furrowed in confusion as he stepped aside, allowing Eleanor to enter the house. He watched her closely as she crossed the threshold, noting the tension in her shoulders and the way her hands trembled slightly at her sides.

They settled in the kitchen, and to calm his nerves, he poured himself another glass of Bourbon while he poured a cup of tea for her. As he sat across from her, watching her place her purse on the table, his knee started bouncing with anxiety.

"What do you want, Eleanor?" he asked, his voice tinged with a hint of scepticism.

"I'm—" She started, her shoulders slouching slightly. "I know we never really talked, you and I, and I know you don't really appreciate me but..." She played with her pink manicured nails, glancing at the wall. "How long until she comes back?"

He was surprised by her question and her insistence that Camille not be here to listen to them, which made him even more curious but also even more troubled. "About an hour, more if she decides to have brunch or tea."

She took a deep breath. "I know about you and Louis," she blurted out quickly, her worried eyes settling on Harry.

The words seemed like a punch to his stomach, cutting his breath and shaking him to his core. He felt the blood rushing away from him, his ears buzzing.

"I knew from the beginning about him. And I noticed about you two when we all had dinner," she was quick to explain. "I am not daft. And I knew Louis wouldn't fall in love with me. It was pretty obvious that I was not what he wanted."

Harry opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again, unable to find any words to convey his thoughts. With shaky hands, he brought his glass to his lips and looked away for a moment.

"I'm not a threat. I'm not... I didn't tell anyone."

"Then what do you want?" he asked, his patience wavering. "Him and I, it's... it's in the past. He left. And I'm going to have a baby with Camille."

She fell silent, avoiding his gaze as soon as the words left him, her breath slightly quickening.

"What is it?" he asked, studying her.

"It's..." She pinched her lips, her eyes shining with tears as she looked up again. "I can't keep it to myself. I can't... I wouldn't be able to look at myself in the mirror one more day."

He frowned, feeling his own heart quickening, waiting for her explanation.

"The baby Camille is carrying... it's not yours."

Harry's breath caught in his throat at her words, his mind reeling with disbelief. It was as if the ground had shifted beneath him, leaving him suspended in a state of confusion and shock. He felt like he was drowning, struggling to grasp onto any semblance of reality as the weight of Eleanor's revelation settled over him like a suffocating blanket. His chest tightened, constricted by the sudden surge of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. He wanted to scream, to lash out at the unfairness of it all, but the words remained lodged in his throat, choked off by the enormity of what he had just learned.

"When you left for this weekend.. and you said to Camille you were with Miles." She hesitated, "Louis told me he was going with Liam. But then, Camille and I went for drinks because she was missing you.. and she felt in a bad mood. But in the pub, we met Miles. And he told her that.. you actually never saw him again after the reunion."

Harry's eyes darted left and right as he assimilated the words, trying to pinpoint and recall all of the events to be able to understand. He gulped, feeling his eyes stinging with tears that threatened to fall.

"She was so sad.. she was convinced you were cheating on her with someone else. And she drank and drank, sure that you wouldn't come home to her. And deep down, I knew.. I understood right away that you went with him. But.."

"But what?" he asked, his voice louder than he had expected, despair and fear gripping him. "What?" he asked again, his voice cracking.

"She.. she went home with someone else that night."

In that moment, time seemed to slow to a crawl, each heartbeat echoing loudly in his ears as he struggled to comprehend the magnitude of the betrayal. His mind raced, the glass slipping from his grasp and shattering on the floor with a sharp, jarring sound that seemed to reverberate through the room. But he hardly noticed, his attention consumed by the devastating realisation that the reason that caused him to lose the love of his life was a manufactured lie.

He felt a wave of nausea wash over him, bile rising in his throat as he fought to suppress the overwhelming urge to retch. The room spun around him, colours blurring together in a dizzying whirlwind of confusion and despair.

His whole life with Camille played in repeat in front of him, the exact moment she told him she was pregnant, how she had chosen the moment he made his decision to tell her everything, the face Louis had made when he had announced it to him.

He felt one tear escape his eyes and roll down onto his chin, falling slowly on top of the table, making him look down, his eyes falling onto his wedding ring. He clutched his glass in his hand, staring at Eleanor.

"Does she know?" he asked, voice low and broken. “About Louis.”

"I—" She swallowed heavily, looking pained for him, eyes full of pity and regret. "I think she does."

He chuckled wetly, closing his eyes to calm his nerves and the whirlwind of emotions raging within him. He felt on the edge, he didn't know of what, but he was sure that he was falling.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly, nervous. "I.. I couldn't keep it to myself, I'm sorry. I won't tell anyone, I swear."

He didn't have the heart to answer her, nor to open his eyes. For a moment, he didn't hear anything more and thought that maybe she had left. But then, he heard the faint sound of something slipping on the surface of the table.

"Louis gave me that before leaving." She whispered, and Harry forced his eyes shut even more, containing the sob threatening to rip his throat. "He is in Paris," she said softly, her words echoing in the silence of the room.

The faint sound of the chair scraping against the wooden floor echoed through the room, followed by the soft clicks of Eleanor's heels as she moved towards the door. Harry's heart pounded in his chest, his breath catching in his throat as he braced himself for what lay ahead.

As Eleanor reached for the doorknob, Harry forced himself to open his eyes, his gaze meeting hers with a mixture of sadness and determination. With a steadying breath and a heart heavy with sorrow, he squared his shoulders and spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you,"

Eleanor paused at the door, turning to look at him one last time. There was a flicker of sympathy in her eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the pain they both shared. "I hope you'll find happiness, Harry," she said softly, her words hanging in the air like a fragile promise.

As Eleanor closed the door behind her, sealing him once more in solitude, Harry found himself unable to hold back the flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. With a heavy heart and a soul weighed down by sorrow, he closed his eyes once more, willing himself to control the tumultuous thoughts that raced through his mind.

Pinching his lips together tightly, Harry grazed his trembling palms over his face, the touch grounding him in the reality of the moment. Yet, even as he fought to regain his composure, he remained suspended between the realms of reality and fantasy, the echoes of his conversation with Eleanor still reverberating in his brain.

When he finally dared to open his eyes again, his gaze fell upon the table before him, where Eleanor had left an envelope and a small leather pouch. His hands shook as he reached for the envelope, his heart pounding with anticipation and trepidation.

With trembling fingers, Harry carefully tore open the envelope, his eyes scanning the words written on the page within. Each line seemed to sear into his soul, stirring up a tempest of emotions that threatened to consume him whole.

"Long before our skins entwined, my love for you took flight,

Yet in that first embrace, your palm became my guiding light.

Your touch, a potent symphony, firm and resolute,

My essence yearned to nestle within your grasp, absolute.

Hearts are bestowed to those who understand their delicate art,

But for you, I'd surrender all, every fragment of my heart.

Beyond flesh, your touch ignited a soulful connection, profound,

You reached depths within me, where echoes of existence resound.

So to you, I offered not just this body, but a spirit uncontrolled,

In your embrace, love's masterpiece, a story to be told.

Through your touch, we're woven, an intricate design so grand,

My love, you touched much more than my flesh,

You touched me, in all that I could represent.

We were never supposed to be in love; for everything that exists inside a heart eventually dies.

Always in my heart, yours sincerely, 
Louis, W, Tomlinson."

Tears welled up in Harry's eyes as he read the heartfelt words, the ink blurring on the page from the cascade of his tears. Clutching the letter against his chest, he surrendered to the anguish that consumed him, his sobs echoing in the empty room as he mourned the loss of his beloved lover.

That same day, Harry found himself at the dinner table with his family. It was a tableau of mixed emotions. Laughter and joy danced through the air, propelled by Harry's father's booming voice as he regaled everyone with plans for the baby's future.

"And when he's old enough, we'll enrol him in the best schools, give him every opportunity to succeed," Desmond exclaimed, his eyes bright with excitement. "He's going to be a real go-getter, just like his old man!"

Gemma shot a worried glance in Harry's direction, her brow furrowing as she observed her brother's increasingly distant demeanour. Niall mirrored her concern, his gaze flickering between Harry and his father as he tried to gauge the atmosphere. each word uttered by Harry's father about the baby's future feeling like a weight pressing down on his chest. His dad's authoritative tone grated on him, But what stung the most were his father's remarks about hoping the baby would be a boy, dismissing women as useless in the world.

"And as for names, well, I've been thinking," Desmond continued, a gleam in his eye as he launched into his favourite topic. "We could go with something strong and traditional, like James or William. Or perhaps something a bit more modern, like Oliver or Ethan."

Harry's silence was palpable amidst the animated discussion, his thoughts elsewhere as Eleanor's words echoed in his mind. His father's laughter filled the room, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within Harry's heart.

As the conversation carried on around him, Harry felt increasingly suffocated by the weight of his father's expectations. The joyful chatter grated on him, each word driving home the sense of isolation he felt.

Unable to bear it any longer, Harry finally erupted. "I want to divorce," he declared, his voice cutting through the tense silence that followed.

The table fell into stunned silence, eyes widening in disbelief. Niall's grip tightened on Amelia's hand under the table, Gemma's hand instinctively went to her belly, and Harry's mother froze in her movements. But it was his father's reaction that cut the deepest.

Desmond bursted into laughter, the sound mocking and derisive. "Oh, my boy, have you had too much wine?" he scoffed, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

But Harry's expression remained resolute, his gaze steely as he faced his father. "I am going to divorce," he repeated, his voice firm and unwavering.

His father's laughter died down, replaced by a mixture of disbelief and anger. "What are you joking about?" Desmond demanded, his voice laced with a hint of menace that made Camille flinch beside Harry.

Without hesitation, Harry drained the last remnants of wine from his glass, his movements calm and deliberate. Turning to Camille, he offered her a choice. "Do you want me to tell them, or do you want to do it yourself?"

Camille's eyes pleaded with him, filled with fear and uncertainty, her breath catching in her throat.

Harry shook his head with a rueful chuckle, rising from his chair with the sound of it scraping against the floor. “This child," he announced, pointing towards Camille and locking eyes with his father, "is not mine."

The room seemed to spin as his words hung in the air, the weight of their implications sinking in. Camille's silent sobs filled the void, her shoulders shaking with suppressed emotion.

Desmond's brow furrowed in confusion, his mind struggling to grasp the magnitude of Harry's revelation. "Not yours?" he echoed, his voice tinged with disbelief. "But... what do you mean?"

Harry's frustration boiled over, his patience wearing thin. "She's pregnant from someone else," he clarified, his voice laced with bitterness.

“Well. “Desmond's expression hardened, his features contorting with anger. "Mistakes happen, Harry," he asserted, his tone bordering on dismissive. "We- we can find an arrangement."

Harry's eyes blazed with fury, his fists clenching at his sides. "An arrangement?" he repeated incredulously, his voice rising in volume. "Are you even hearing yourself?!"

Desmond rose from his chair, sending it toppling down, his imposing figure towering over Harry as he glared down at his son. "You don't raise your voice at me!" he bellowed, the force of his words reverberating through the room. “Things happen, we can fix it.’’

“I’m gay.”

The atmosphere in the room grew heavy, charged with tension as Harry stood his ground, his resolve unyielding. The weight of his words hung in the air like a thick fog, suffocating the once jovial mood of the family gathering.

Desmond's reaction was immediate and visceral, his face contorting with a mixture of shock and fury at Harry's revelation. The air crackled with suppressed anger as he struggled to comprehend the truth laid bare before him.

"You're... you're what?" Desmond's voice trembled with barely contained rage, his fists clenching involuntarily at his sides as he fought to maintain his composure.

Harry met his father's gaze head-on, his own expression a blend of defiance and vulnerability. "I'm gay," he reiterated, his voice steady despite the maelstrom of emotions swirling within him. “I love men.”

The words hung in the air like a thunderclap, each syllable echoing off the walls of the room. Gemma's eyes welled with tears, her heart breaking at the sight of her family being torn apart by the revelation.

Desmond's anger surged to the surface, his face flushing crimson with indignation as he took a menacing step towards Harry. "How dare you," he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "How dare you bring such shame upon this family."

But Harry remained resolute, refusing to back down in the face of his father's wrath. "I won't apologise for who I am," he asserted, his voice quivering with suppressed emotion.

The tension in the room was palpable, each member of the family holding their breath as father and son stood locked in a battle of wills. Niall rose from his seat, his expression one of concern as he watched the scene unfold, ready to intervene.

Desmond's control slipped further, his rage boiling over as he advanced on Harry, his eyes blazing with fury. He reached out and grabbed Harry by the collar, pulling him in close. "You think you can defy me, defy everything this family stands for?!" he bellowed, his voice reverberating off the walls. “I won’t let you ruin everything I’ve worked for!”

Harry met his father's gaze with steely determination, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I won't live a lie anymore!" he declared, his voice tinged with defiance as he brought his chest against his father’s, raising his arms at his side. “I’m a phony, father! A fa*ggot ! I love men, I f*ck them !”

Desmond's fury reached a boiling point, his fists grabbing the jacket of Harry’s suit, bringing them forehead to forehead. "I'll f*cking kill you!" he spat, his voice low and dangerous. “It’s that bloody fa*ggot, isn’t it? That professor you brought into our house?!”

“Don’t even speak of him,” Harry growled, his voice laced with warning.

But Desmond refused to be silenced, his tirade escalating into a torrent of hom*ophobic slurs and vitriol. "These abominations should be eradicated!" he roared, his face contorted with hatred.

“Speak of him over my grave and watch how he brings me back to life! Lock me away and watch me crawl against every damn ocean to get back to him!” Harry yelled back.

In a sudden and shocking move, Desmond lunged for a nearby knife, his intent clear. Gasps and screams erupted from the table as chaos ensued, but Niall was quick to intervene, pulling Harry out of harm's way while Gemma's husband restrained Desmond.

"Get out!" Desmond thundered, his face flushed with anger. “Get out of my house, you disgrace!”

With one last defiant glare, Harry turned and stormed out of the room and ran up the stairs, leaving behind a family torn apart by secrets and lies, their once-united front shattered by the revelation of his truth.

His bedroom was a whirlwind of emotions as Harry hastily stuffed his belongings into a duffle bag, his hands trembling with adrenaline and anger. Each item he packed felt like a weight lifted off his shoulders, a step closer to freedom from the suffocating constraints of his family's expectations.

The door creaked open behind him, and Harry turned to see his mother and sister standing in the doorway, tears glistening in their eyes.

Without a word, he dropped the bag and rushed into their arms, pulling them close with a fierce desperation.

As they held each other tight, Harry felt a flood of emotions wash over him - love, sorrow, regret, and a newfound sense of liberation. His mother's gentle caress soothed his racing heart, her whispered words of pride and love a balm to his wounded soul.

"I'm proud of you," she murmured against his neck, her voice thick with emotion. "My brave boy."

Gemma's arms tightened around them both, her own tears mingling with theirs. "I love you," she whispered, pressing a kiss to Harry's cheek. "I love you, Harry. Go and find him. Be yourself."

Harry nodded fervently, his chest tightening with emotion as he held onto them, knowing deep down that this might be the last time he would feel their warmth around him.

Niall appeared in the doorway, his expression a mixture of pride and concern. "Take your things, I'm taking you," he said, his voice steady and reassuring. "Amelia's in the car."

With Niall's help, Harry quickly finished packing his bags, his movements frantic yet purposeful. He felt a surge of gratitude towards his friend for standing by him through it all, his presence a source of strength and support.

As they made their way downstairs, the sound of Desmond's anger echoed from his office, a stark reminder of the turmoil Harry was leaving behind. But he refused to let it hold him back, his resolve unwavering as he said his final goodbyes to his mother and sister.

Outside, the car awaited them, a beacon of hope amidst the chaos. Harry hugged his family one last time, their tearful farewells echoing in his ears as he climbed into the backseat with only two bags containing his whole life.

As the car pulled away from the house, Harry felt a mixture of fear and excitement course through his veins. He was leaving behind everything he had ever known, but he was also embarking on a journey towards freedom and self-discovery. And as he watched the familiar streets fade into the distance, he knew that he was finally taking control of his own destiny.

Chapter 21: End of beginning

Chapter Text

After the intense confrontation with his family and his courageous declaration, Harry knew that he had to take action to end his marriage with Camille. The following day, he sat down with her in their home, the tension thick between them as they faced the reality of their crumbling relationship.

In a long and emotional discussion, Harry and Camille hashed out the details of their divorce. Despite Camille’s begging, for the sake of the children, for the sake of her honour, Harry didn’t weaken. He let her have the house, not wanting anything to tie him down to the life he once lived.

And with Niall's assistance, Harry navigated the complex legal process of filing for divorce, knowing that his father's disapproval could complicate matters further. Niall had offered his unwavering support, helping Harry with the paperwork and offering a shoulder to lean on during the difficult process. However, his actions did not go unnoticed, and he ultimately paid the price for his loyalty, losing his job as a result. But for Niall, the sacrifice was worth it to help his friend in need.

With the divorce papers finalised and the weight of his failed marriage lifted from his shoulders, Harry found himself staying in Niall’s guest bedroom for a week, the time that his next plan was finally perfected.

Determined to embrace his true self and find the love he had lost, he made a bold decision to leave everything behind and embark on a journey to Paris to find Louis.

With a heavy heart, he sold his prized possessions – his car, expensive watches, and tailored suits – to fund his trip. Armed with only a backpack, a small suitcase and a burning desire to reunite with his lover, he boarded a plane bound for the City of Light.

However, upon arriving in Paris, reality hit Harry like a ton of bricks. Alone in a foreign city, he found himself overwhelmed and directionless, unsure of where to begin his search for Louis.

His first days in Paris were a whirlwind of uncertainty and adventure, as he navigated the bustling streets of the city without a clear plan. He wandered from hostel to hostel, his limited French making communication difficult and leaving him feeling isolated in a sea of unfamiliar faces. Each night, he counted his dwindling funds, the fear of running out of money gnawing at him as he struggled to find his footing in his new surroundings.

Amidst the chaos and uncertainty, Harry found solace in the beauty of Parisian architecture and the culinary delights of French cuisine. He developed a newfound appreciation for the art of patisserie, the delicate pastries reminding him of simpler times spent baking with his grandmother as a child. One bakery in particular captured his heart, its charming facade and inviting aroma drawing him in day after day.

It was there that Harry met Matilde, the spirited owner of the bakery, whose gruff exterior belied a kind heart and generous spirit. Despite the language barrier, Harry found himself drawn to Matilde's warmth and hospitality, returning each day for his morning coffee and croissant, armed with a basic French dictionary in an attempt to bridge the gap between them.

After two weeks of wandering the streets of Paris in search of Louis, Harry found himself outside the familiar bakery once again, his heart heavy with frustration and uncertainty. He sat on a nearby bench, his suitcase and bag by his side, feeling utterly lost and overwhelmed by the enormity of the city.

With each passing day, the weight of his impulsive decision to leave everything behind grew heavier, the reality of his situation sinking in. He had no idea where to start looking for Louis, and his lack of proficiency in French only compounded his sense of helplessness.

As Harry sat outside the bakery, lost in his thoughts, Matilde emerged from the shop, her expression unusually serious. Without a word, she snatched the French dictionary from his hands and delivered a sharp blow to the back of his head, her rapid-fire French filling the air with urgency. Harry winced in pain, his confusion growing as Matilde seized his bag and disappeared back into the shop. He watched in bewilderment as she reemerged moments later, gesturing for him to follow her inside.

Inside the bakery, Matilde's normally bustling kitchen was quiet, the air heavy with anticipation. She led Harry up the creaky staircase at the back of the shop, her movements brisk and determined.

At the top of the stairs, she pushed open the door to a small, dimly lit room, motioning for Harry to enter. He stepped inside, his heart pounding with a mixture of gratitude and trepidation, unsure of what awaited him on the other side.

But as he looked around the cramped but cosy space, he felt a sense of relief wash over him. Despite the uncertainty of his situation, he knew that he was exactly where he needed to be, surrounded by the warmth and kindness of a stranger who had become his unexpected saviour.

From that day on, Harry worked tirelessly alongside Matilde, learning the art of baking and slowly but surely picking up fragments of the French language. Despite the occasional frustration and misunderstandings, Matilde's patience and encouragement never wavered, and Harry soon began to feel at home in his new surroundings.

In the afternoons, as they cleaned and closed the shop together, Matilde took it upon herself to teach Harry French, using gestures and playful slaps on the arm to correct his mistakes. Their time together was filled with laughter and camaraderie, and Harry found himself grateful for the unexpected bond he had formed with his mentor and friend.

One night, Harry stood before the mirror in his small apartment above the modest bakery where he now worked, taking in the reflection that stared back at him.

Gone were the meticulously styled locks held in place by gel, replaced instead by a mane of unruly curls and untamed strands that seemed to have a life of their own. His hair had grown longer, the once sharp edges softened by the passage of time and the absence of a high-maintenance routine.

Running his fingers through the tousled locks, Harry couldn't help but smile at the reflection before him. There was a rawness to his appearance now, a sense of authenticity that he had never known in the posh environments of his past. The small curls framed his face in a way that felt natural, a testament to the freedom he had found in letting go of societal expectations and embracing his true self.

But it wasn't just his hair that had changed. Harry's body bore the marks of his new life, muscles defined from hours spent carrying bags of flour and kneading dough with practised hands. Where once he had been accustomed to the softness of luxury, he now revealed the strength and resilience that came from honest labour.

As he adjusted the apron around his waist, Harry couldn't help but feel a sense of pride swell within him. This was who he was now – not the polished facade he had once presented to the world, but a man shaped by his experiences, his struggles, and his triumphs. And though his journey had been far from easy, he wouldn't trade it for anything.

Stepping out of the apartment and into the bustling bakery below, Harry took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of freshly baked bread and the promise of a new day. With each bag of flour he lifted, each batch of dough he kneaded, he felt himself growing stronger, more grounded in the reality of his own existence.

And as he lost himself in the rhythm of his work, Harry knew that he had found his place in the world – not among the glitz and glamour of the elite, but here, among the flour, the dough, and the unruly strands that marked his journey towards self-discovery and acceptance.

He began to realise that his journey was not just about finding Louis, but also about discovering himself and embracing the true essence of who he was meant to be.

It was only after five months, that everything changed.

While standing at the back of the bakery, Harry spotted someone walking with a bike, and his heart dropped into his stomach. He had to do a double take, hardly daring to believe what his eyes were seeing.

At first, Harry was so stunned that he questioned whether he was hallucinating. But the way the figure moved, the familiar gait and posture, left no room for doubt. With a surge of hope, fear, love, and a myriad of other emotions swirling inside him, he called out.

The man stopped in his tracks, appearing uncertain whether to turn around or continue on his way. Perhaps it was the familiarity of the voice that gave him pause, or maybe it stirred up emotions he wasn't ready to face. After a few tense moments, he slowly turned, revealing only the profile of his head.

As their eyes met, a rush of emotions flooded over Harry like an avalanche.

Relief. Pain. Longing. Love.

Louis's bike slipped from his grasp, crashing to the pavement with a thud. His mouth fell open in disbelief, his eyes betraying a depth of emotion that Harry could scarcely comprehend from a distance.

A pang of longing gripped Harry's heart, drowning out the sounds around him. The cigarette slipped from his fingers, forgotten, as he licked his lips nervously. Harry wiped his flour-covered hands on his dirty apron, his feet moving forward almost of their own accord, unable to resist the pull any longer.

Though apprehensive of Louis's reaction, their last encounter having been far from joyful, Harry couldn't suppress the urge to close the distance between them. And as Louis began to walk toward him, a hand pressed against his mouth as if to hold back tears, Harry knew he couldn't wait a moment longer. With a surge of determination, he broke into a run.

In that poignant moment, as Harry and Louis finally closed the distance between them, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them standing amidst the bustling city streets. With a heart-stopping intensity, they collided into each other's arms, their bodies melding together as if they had been moulded to fit perfectly in each other's embrace.

Their grip tightened, Louis’ fingers in Harry’s hair, and Harry’s arms around his waist, almost lifting him from the ground desperately. As if trying to anchor themselves to one another amidst the storm of emotions raging within. Tears welled up in Louis's eyes, spilling over in torrents as he buried his face in Harry's shoulder, the weight of all they had endured crashing down upon him.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Louis allowed himself to cry openly, the sound of his sobs echoing through the air. Each tear shed was a testament to the pain and longing he had carried in his heart during all of their story, a release of all the pent-up emotions that had threatened to consume him.

Harry held him close, whispering soothing words against his ear, his own voice choked with emotion. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his words a heartfelt confession of regret and remorse. "I love you," he repeated, each syllable infused with a depth of feeling that transcended mere words.

Their embrace was a refuge from the turmoil of the world, a sanctuary where they could find solace in each other's arms. In that moment, nothing else mattered but the overwhelming love that bound them together, stronger than ever in the face of adversity.

Louis pulled away slightly, his eyes red and puffy from the torrent of tears that had cascaded down his cheeks. His gaze bore into Harry's with a mixture of disbelief and hope, as if he couldn't quite comprehend that this moment was real.

"What—" His voice wavered, choked with emotion, as he struggled to form coherent words. "What are you doing here?" The question hung in the air, laden with uncertainty and vulnerability.

Harry gently took Louis's wrist in his hand, pressing a tender kiss to his knuckles before using his thumb to wipe away the tears that continued to fall. "I couldn't be without you," he confessed, his voice trembling with emotion. "Your letter, what you said... it's not true. We were supposed to be in love." He shook his head, his heartache laid bare for Louis to see. "My heart dies without you, Louis. I'm not myself without you. I'm not... alive."

Louis's brows furrowed, his breath catching in his throat as he struggled to process Harry's words. "But..."

"It's over," Harry declared, determination shining in his eyes as he lifted his hand to show Louis his ring-free finger. He then gestured to the necklace around his neck, the cross replaced by the locket. "I'm yours," he added softly, his voice laced with sincerity. "If you still want me."

A heavy silence hung between them, Louis's gaze locked onto Harry's, his emotions swirling beneath the surface. With a weak chuckle that was tinged with relief, he whispered, "Oh God." And then, without another word, he surged forward, wrapping his arms around Harry's neck and pressing their lips together in a fervent kiss.

In that moment, everything else faded away, and Harry felt as if he had been brought back to life, his heart bursting with love and gratitude as he held Louis in his arms once more.

Matilde's expression was a mix of surprise and amusem*nt as Harry walked into the shop, his hair dishevelled and eyes brimming with tears, hand in hand with Louis. She had been waiting for Harry to close up when they arrived, and his attempt to explain in broken French only made Louis giggle before taking over and eloquently recounting the whole story.

Louis pitched in to help tidy up the terrace, assisting with cleaning some utensils, and attempting, albeit unsuccessfully, to refuse a bag full of pastries from the old lady.

Uncertain of what lay ahead for him now, Harry turned to Louis with a shy look. "I... live upstairs. It's not much, but um... do you want to talk? Maybe?"

Louis smiled, the same confident and endearing smile he'd worn since the day they met. "Yeah."

Matilde muttered something in French that made Louis blush and wave his hand in a dismissive gesture as he followed Harry up the stairs.

Discovering Harry's living quarters prompted a shift in Louis. Seeing the small, rustic studio with Harry's shirt hanging from a chair, the uncomfortable-looking bed, and the tiny kitchen adjacent to a bathroom stirred a mix of pity and gratitude in him. He marvelled at the fact that Harry had been willing to leave behind his luxurious life for this, all for the sake of their love.

"I’m sorry for the mess" Harry said, hurriedly stowing things away in cupboards in an attempt to tidy up the place before Louis's eyes. "But um... you can sit." He pulled out a small chair, quickly wiping it down with his hand.

Louis watched as Harry moved into the space, settling onto the chair. His eyes wandered around the room, taking in the sparse furnishings and the remnants of Harry's life. He glanced at the tiny window above the bed, the suitcase still half-open on the ground, and the books next to Harry's bed, each item offering a glimpse into Harry's world.

As they sat facing each other in the small space, Louis couldn't help but notice the absence of Harry's ring. His gaze kept drifting to where it should have been, as if searching for some tangible proof that it was truly gone. It was a subtle yet profound reminder of the change that had occurred between them, a silent acknowledgment of the upheaval that had brought them to this moment.

Harry took a deep breath, steeling himself for the difficult conversation ahead. He knew he needed to be honest with Louis, to lay bare his soul and share the truth of his journey. “When you left,” He began, his voice steady but tinged with emotion. "I couldn't.. Live. I couldn’t-’’ He stopped himself, tilting his head on the side like he was not satisfied with his words. ‘’Waking up every morning in a world you were not going to call my name made me want to die.”

Louis listened intently, his eyes never leaving Harry's face as he waited for him to continue.

"Eleanor came to me.’’ He said, getting up and walking to his bed where he lifted the pillow and took a small wounded book in his hand, making Louis’ eyes widen. When Harry sat back, he turned the book in the air, his gaze strained on it. ‘’You remember this book right ?” He chuckled, ‘’You forgot it in the library, I think it was in November.’’

“November 13th.’’ Louis answered right away, his eyes leaving the book to raise to Harry.

Harry went through the pages until the book opened itself where a letter was tucked in between, making Louis’ breath stop for a second. ‘’She gave me this.’’ He said as he took the letter in between his fingers. “But she also told me that the baby was not mine.”

Louis' brow furrowed in concern, his heart aching for Harry as he spoke. “What?’’ He asked in disbelief.

"It’s alright.”Harry continued, his voice catching slightly, "I guess it was a relief. I wanted to be a good father, not because I loved her, but because I didn’t want to reenact the mistakes my father did with me.." He cleared his throat, his leg started bouncing. ‘’We had this dinner at my house. Niall came with Amelia because I couldn’t face them all alone.’’ He looked away, his eyes staring at a dirty spot on the wall. ‘’My.. Desmond. He started talking about names for the child, and school, and jobs, and education. And at the same time the only thing I had in my brain was that the reason I lost you was all a lie.’’ His eyes started to sting and he had to scrunch up his nose to constrain the tears. ‘’I bursted out.’’ He looked at Louis, fiery eyes and proud. ‘’I told him, them. I told them I was in love with a man. And that nothing they could do to me would change it.’’

Louis’ mouth parted open, a small tear making its way on his temple and down his chin, fingers twitching to reach for Harry.

"I sold everything," Harry went on, his hands trembling slightly as he recalled the painful decision he had made. "My car, my watches, my suits – everything I had. I needed to find you, Louis. I couldn't bear the thought of being without you."

Louis reached out, his hand finding Harry's and squeezing it tightly in a silent show of support.

"I came to Paris," Harry explained, his voice barely above a whisper now. "I didn't know where else to go. I didn't even know if you were still here."

Louis felt a surge of emotion welling up inside him as he listened to Harry's words. He had never imagined that Harry would go to such lengths for him, that he would sacrifice everything to be with him.

"I tried to survive without even knowing French," Harry confessed, his voice breaking with a small chuckle. "But every day was a struggle. I missed you, Louis. I missed you so much."

Tears glistened in Louis' eyes as he reached out to cup Harry's cheek, shuffling at the edge of his seat, his heart overflowing with love and gratitude for the man sitting before him "Harry," Louis whispered, his voice choking with emotion. "I had no idea…"

Harry shook his head, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "I had to find you," he said softly. "I had to be with you, no matter what it took."

"How long have you been in France?" Louis asked shyly, not sure if he would like the answer to his question.

"Six months." Harry replied softly, his gaze meeting Louis' with a mixture of vulnerability and hope. "I was lucky to find Mathilde. She took me in, and I could stay here in exchange for working with her."

Louis smiled, a bittersweet expression crossing his features as he processed Harry's words. His thumb traced gentle circles on Harry's skin, a silent gesture of comfort.

"I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough to fight for this earlier," Harry continued, his voice trembling with emotion. "I'm sorry that half of the time I've known you, I didn't know what I was doing, what I wanted." He sniffled, his lips quivering with unspoken emotion. "I... I don't know if you still want this, me and you, but I promise I'll do anything I can for you to trust me."

Louis remained silent for a moment, his expression pensive and contemplative. Harry's heart clenched with anxiety, fearing rejection. But then, Louis spoke.

"Come back with me," Louis said, his voice firm yet tender as he rose from the chair and stepped between Harry's legs, his hands cradling Harry's face. "Come with me."

Harry's eyes widened in surprise, his heart skipping a beat at Louis' unexpected invitation. "You mean..."

"I mean, come with me to my house," Louis affirmed, his gaze unwavering as he held Harry's gaze.

"But... my things?" Harry's voice wavered with uncertainty.

"We'll figure it out later," Louis replied, his tone gentle yet decisive. The warmth of his hands against Harry's cheeks filled Harry with a sense of reassurance and belonging.

As the night began to fall over Paris, Louis rode his bicycle with Harry clinging to him from behind, the wind tousling their hair. Harry had always loved Paris at night, the city of lights living up to its name. He smiled as they zipped through the streets, the cool breeze brushing against his skin, feeling a sense of freedom wash over him.

Arriving at Louis' flat, Harry marvelled at its beauty. It was a typical Hausmannian-style apartment, with light wooden floors, white moulded walls, and double glass doors leading to each room. A fireplace stood in the centre of the open living room, inviting warmth into the space. Books were scattered everywhere, on the ground, sofa, and tables, bringing a sense of comfort to the room.

As Louis opened the windows to let in the fresh air, Harry watched him fondly, his mind drifting back to the first time he had ever entered Louis' dorm room, where books and ripped pages adorned the walls.

Warmth flooded Harry's body as Louis rummaged through a pile of papers on the table, finally plucking out a small, worn piece of paper.

"Do you remember this?" Louis asked, his voice soft as he unfolded the paper.

Harry frowned.

"When I was in Oxford, I met someone," Louis began, his words piercing Harry's heart. "I knew, the moment I saw him, that I couldn't approach him. Because if I did, I knew I would burn myself."

“The red rose whispers of passion. And the white rose breathes of love; O, the red rose is a falcon, And the white rose is a dove. But I sent you a cream-white rosebud. With a flush on its petal tips; For the love that is purest and sweetest. Has a kiss of desire on the lips.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat as he recognized the poem written in his own handwriting. It was a piece he had written when he was nineteen, hopelessly in love with Louis. And as Louis recited the poem slowly, each word echoing with emotion. Harry listened, his breath catching in his throat as memories flooded back to him.

"I don't think there is any world, universe, or dimension where I don't love you, Harry," Louis confessed, his eyes locking with Harry's, full of warmth and sincerity. "I'd do all of this over again if I could. I wouldn't hesitate."

Tears welled up in Harry's eyes as he nodded, overcome with emotion. "Me too," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I'm ready now. I'm not afraid. I want this. I want to fight, I want to love.” His lips started to womble all over again, “I-I want to be free."

Louis reached out, pulling Harry into his arms, holding him close. "Darling," he murmured, his voice gentle and reassuring. "We are. Together, we are."

As the warm water cascaded over him in the shower, Harry felt the weight of the day slowly begin to wash away. He closed his eyes, letting the soothing stream ease the tension from his muscles. Louis had been kind enough to offer him the chance to freshen up, to rid himself of the flour that clung to his clothes and hair from his work in the bakery.

But even as he stood beneath the spray, Harry couldn't shake the lingering tension in the air. It felt surreal to be here, in Louis' flat, after everything they had been through. The weight of their shared history hung heavy between them, reminding Harry of all the obstacles they had faced and overcome.

As Harry finished his shower and stepped out, wrapping himself in a towel, he found Louis taking his place in the bathroom. The atmosphere remained tense, a palpable undercurrent beneath the surface of their interactions. It was hard to believe that they were finally free, miles away from the constraints of their past, yet still haunted by the memories that lingered.

With a sigh, Harry wandered through the flat, his fingers trailing over the books and paintings that adorned the walls. He felt a sense of curiosity tug at him, a desire to explore Louis' new life since they had parted ways. He found himself in the bedroom, hesitating at the threshold before stepping inside. The room felt familiar yet foreign, a mix of Louis' presence and the passage of time. Harry couldn't help but wonder if Louis had ever brought someone else here, if he had found solace in the arms of another while Harry was gone. The thought made his heart ache with a pang of jealousy and insecurity.

Lost in his thoughts, Harry found himself standing in front of the open closet. His fingers brushed against the fabric of Louis' clothes, his senses overwhelmed by the familiar scent of Louis' cologne. But it was something else that caught his attention, something hidden amidst the garments.

His fingers closed around the smooth, silky material, pulling it gently to reveal its colour. Black silk shimmered in the soft light of the room, sending a jolt of warmth through Harry's veins. He swallowed hard, his heart pounding in his chest as he realised what he held in his hands.

"I don't know if you want to spend th-''

Louis paused mid-step, his hand freezing in the air as he turned to face Harry. The towel slipped from his grasp, forgotten, as he took in the sight before him. Harry, with a look of panic etched on his face, hurriedly opened the closet door, as if seeking refuge from Louis' gaze. A blush tinted his cheeks, betraying his embarrassment, while his fingers trembled with a mixture of nerves and shame.

In the stillness of the room, the only sound that filled the air was the rapid thumping of Harry's heartbeat, echoing loudly in his ears. He could feel the weight of Louis' gaze on him, even with the wooden door separating them.

"Darling," Louis' voice broke the silence, soft and tender, tinged with a hint of vulnerability. "Don't hide from me. Let me see you."

Harry's response was a barely audible murmur, his grip on the closet door tightening as if to shield himself from Louis' words. "N-No," he stammered, his voice trembling with uncertainty. "Just... Give me a minute to... Just give me a minute."

"Harry, please," Louis pleaded, his voice filled with longing. "I want to see you."

Slowly, ever so slowly, the door slowly moved, and Harry’s feet shuffled on the ground. Louis held himself ready, bracing himself in order to control his face and reaction, holding his breath. But nothing he could have done would have been enough to prepare him from the sight.

Harry, his boy, stood before him in a dark silk sleeping gown that clung to his form, accentuating the curves of his body in a way that left Louis breathless. He had his head down, his fingers linked together in front of him, pigeon toed and still obviously blushing.

For a moment, Louis was frozen in place, his heart hammering in his chest as he took in the sight before him. Harry, with his tousled hair and hesitant expression, looked both vulnerable and stunningly beautiful in the soft fabric that draped over his frame.

"Harry..." Louis began, his voice barely above a whisper, filled with a mixture of awe and tenderness.

Harry's cheeks flushed a dark crimson, his eyes darting away as if seeking refuge from Louis' gaze. "I-I can explain," he stammered, his hands fidgeting nervously.

"There's no need to explain, love," Louis stepped closer, his eyes never leaving Harry's face. But when he extended his hands, Harry took a small step back, crossing his arms on his chest, defensive. "You're beautiful just as you are."

Harry's breath caught in his throat, tears welling up in his eyes as he struggled to find the words to express his emotions. "But I... I never thought I could..." he trailed off, his voice barely a whisper.

Louis' heart ached at the sight of Harry's distress, his own eyes filling with tears as he pulled him into a warm embrace. "It's okay, Harry," he murmured, taking another tentative step, until his hand was able to reach for Harry’s face, his thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "You don't have to be anyone but yourself with me."

“I-’’ Harry looked down at his own attire and shook his head, ‘’I don’t know what happened, I didn’t mean to. Let me just-’’

As Louis' hand settled on his hip, Harry's breath hitched, his body responding to the gentle touch with a mix of nervousness and anticipation. Meeting Louis' gaze, he found a sense of reassurance in the warmth of his eyes, a silent encouragement to embrace the moment.

Slowly, Harry's fingers trailed over the smooth fabric of the nightgown, his touch tentative yet curious. "I've never worn anything like this before," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Louis nodded understandingly, his own fingers tracing patterns along the delicate material. "How does it feel?" he inquired softly, his tone filled with genuine curiosity.

Harry paused, searching for the right words to articulate the unfamiliar sensations coursing through him. "It feels..." He trailed off, his lips pressing together in thought.

Sensing Harry's hesitation, Louis nudged him gently, their noses brushing against each other. "Pretty?" he suggested, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

A hesitant smile tugged at the corners of Harry's mouth as he nodded in agreement. "Pretty," he echoed, his voice soft with wonder.

Louis leaned in closer, his breath warm against Harry's ear as he whispered, "And sexy?"

Harry’s gaze fell on the mirror of the closet’ door, a small zip of warmth climbing up his spine as he allowed himself to watch how his body was pressed against Louis, how delicate he looked for once, Louis’ hand holding his back and caressing him. “And sexy.’’ He repeated blindly, gulping when he felt Louis’ tongue on his skin.

Louis' heart swelled with pride silently as Harry's walls began to crumble, his defences melting away under the warmth of Louis' acceptance. He tightened his grip ever so slightly, pulling Harry even closer until their bodies were pressed together, their hearts beating in unison.

Harry watched with intensity in the mirror, where Louis' hands made their way down Harry’s back to hold his bum, caressing it above the fabric, biting a red mark next to his shoulder. "Mine?" Louis murmured against his skin, his voice laced with possessiveness.

Feeling a rush of warmth flooding his veins, Harry’s skin tingled with want, his hands finding their way to Louis' neck, urging him on with a silent plea. "Yours,"

Pulling away from the tender embrace, Louis trailed his nose along Harry's cheek, his warm breath tickling the skin of his lips. His gaze locked onto Harry's, filled with adoration and a hint of vulnerability. "My beautiful boy," he whispered, his voice soft and tender.

Harry's heart danced with affection as Louis whispered endearingly, his grip on Louis' shirt growing tighter. As Louis' lips met Harry's, a rush of memories engulfed him, transporting him back to clandestine kisses in the dim confines of Oxford's library. The intensity of their initial gaze, etched in his mind from years past, flooded back, and a sudden realisation dawned upon him.

With a soft whimper, Harry nestled deeper into Louis' embrace, melding their bodies together, eagerly inviting his tongue with gentle pats of his lips, both lost in the ecstasy of their intertwined embrace, their moans meeting and mixing.

For Harry, the sensation is unfamiliar. While his sexual experiences are largely shared with Louis, he's accustomed to taking the lead, albeit often following Louis' cues. He's learned Louis' preferences, focused on his pleasure, making it his sole mission.

Yet, the way Louis kisses him, tenderly cradling his head, fingers entwined in his curls, hands gently on his hips, evokes a sense of surrender and trust. In this moment, all Harry can feel is a profound sense of safety and love.

Unconsciously, he begins to move, pressing his body closer to Louis, arching his back to feel the warmth and strength of Louis against the fabric of his silk attire. Louis reciprocates, stepping back, his grip tightening, as they continue their passionate embrace.

As Louis' knees met the mattress, he lowered himself, opening his legs to invite Harry, who stood between them, breathless with crimson lips, fingers still clutching Louis' shirt at his shoulders.

Gazing down at Louis, his heart skipped a beat, noticing the subtle dusting of hair on his upper lip and chin, his wet hair almost dry, clad in a simple grey cotton shirt. Harry bit his lip, feeling a surge of emotion.

"I think I was born to be in love with you." he confessed, his words driven more by instinct than logic. "I didn't understand it then, why I was so drawn to you."

Louis smiled softly, his thumbs tracing soothing circles on Harry's hips. "I knew," he murmured. "But I couldn't say anything. I wanted you to realise it, to come to terms with it in your own time."

"But it cost us so much..."

"Hmhm," Louis hummed, planting kisses on Harry's covered belly. "And yet, here we are." He lifted his gaze to meet Harry's, sending a shiver down his spine with the sudden intensity.

Harry's hands found their way to Louis' neck, his thumb caressing behind his ear as he gently tilted Louis' face upwards. “Did you.. Were you in love with me too?”

Louis chuckled, shaking his head with fondness. “How could I not love you? With your wrinkled tie, your curly hair, your mathematics and your innocence? You looked at me with those big eyes of yours and I was damned.”

A moment of silence passed, Harry replaying all his first year at Oxford in his mind, all the little touches, eye contacts and smiles, his heart pinching.

"Make love to me," Harry whispered, his voice barely audible.

As Harry's whispered request hung in the air, Louis's breath caught in his throat. His heart pounded with a mixture of desire, longing, and a profound sense of tenderness for the man before him. He searched Harry's eyes, seeing the vulnerability and sincerity reflected in their depths.

A soft smile tugged at the corners of his lips, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears as he reached out to cup Harry's face tenderly. "Oh, my darling," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

In that simple gesture, Louis conveyed a myriad of emotions—love, acceptance, adoration. He rose from the bed. pressing a gentle kiss to Harry's forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment as he savoured the closeness between them. Gentle, he turned them around, slowly letting Harry lay down in the middle of the plush bed.

The sight of Harry, silken fabric draped over his form like a whisper, accentuating curves that had long been concealed made Louis forget everything he knew about poetry.

“You look so perfect like this,’’ Louis said, his eyes fleeting across the room.

In two steps, he reached his desk and retrieved a small camera. When Harry saw him come back to the bed, he blushed and hid behind his hands. "Lou,'' he whined.

“No, come on, love. Show me how pretty you are,’’ Louis urged, smiling brightly.

When Harry’s hands slowly came apart, he had the sheepish smile to graze his fingers in his now longer curls, arranging them on his forehead before he looked at the camera, shyly biting his lips.

The flash went off and Louis waited with bated breath for the polaroid to slip out. Not having the patience to wait for it to develop fully, he placed everything down on the desk and returned once more.

“You should turn around, love.’’

“No,’’ Harry answered, ‘’I want to see you.’’

The words had the power to make Louis blush and flutter his eyes for a minute, Harry apparently completely oblivious of the effect he had. “Turn around for now,’’ Louis insisted. ‘’Trust me.’’

As Harry rolled on his stomach, the little dress bulged up around his perky bum, his shoulder blades and back muscles strained from how he held himself on his elbows, never ending legs presenting with creamy skin on dark sheets made Louis’ brain forget any kind of poetry or literature he had ever read.

He stared, unabashedly, pride, lust and adoration in his eyes.

Louis approached him with a reverence that mirrored the sacredness of the moment. His fingertips, calloused yet gentle, brushed against the smooth silk, tracing the lines of Harry's silhouette with a delicate touch that sent shivers down his spine. Each caress felt like a whispered confession, as if Louis were unveiling secrets that had long been hidden beneath layers of cloth and skin.

“Do you want to take it off?’’ He whispered against Harry’s ear.

He got a shook of head in answer, ‘’Want to feel pretty…’’ Muffled into the sheets.

So he explored every inch of Harry's body, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he were unravelling a masterpiece. He let his breath run aground the skin of his calves, deposing his wet mouth at Harry’s knee bed and smiling when he felt him shift under him,

“This dress makes your legs so pretty.’’ He whispered, letting his tongue run out on the skin right there.

With each touch, each kiss pressed against Harry's skin, Louis worshipped not just the body before him, but the soul that resided within. He worshipped the strength it took for Harry to stand before him in the vulnerability of his desires, to shed the armour of societal expectations and embrace his true self without reservation.

When he reached Harry’s thighs, two hands enveloping and massaging the flesh, he could see in the lines of Harry’s shoulders and in the muscles in his arms that he was already more relaxed, but still holding back. He left open kisses and a nip of his teeth here and there, while his hands disappeared under the dress to knead at his bum, relishing in the warm skin,

Harry shifted on the bed, a tiny slide of his foot against the sheets, probably unconsciously trying to open his legs wider, followed by a low exhale.

His skin was a fever dream. Soft and spotless. Louis watched like a prey as his own hands moulded against Harry’s bum, licking his own lips. He gently gripped either side of Harry's arse, kneading at it while spreading it open a little. A small hum echoed in the air, shaky and surprised.

“What about some panties for next time ?” Louis asked, lost in a reverie. “I’m sure you would look so beautiful in them.”

A soft noise escaped Harry, something Louis never really got to hear before, and it only spurred him to keep going. ‘’Answer me love, would you like that ?”

He was gripping the sheets hard between his fingers, his body still tense with nerves and apprehension, but Louis saw him nod against the mattress, humming positively. “Yes,’’

Louis shakily exhaled as he spreaded Harry open once more, exposing his hole. He took a moment to compose himself before slowly leaning forward and letting his tongue trace the skin around Harry's hole.

The body underneath him froze and tensed up, fingers gripping the covers even tighter than before. Harry frowned against the mattress, raising his head so that his chin was barely touching the sheets. He turned his head on the side, exhaling a shaky breath as he tried to focus on the foreign feeling of Louis’ tongue on his most intimate part.

“Relax love,’’ He murmured against his skin,

When Louis’ tongue started to leisurely lap at Harry's hole, flicking his tongue over it in regular motions, Harry's reaction was rewarding. He gasped, legs elongating on the bed, his face falling back on the sheets, mumbling out a long moan.

Wanting Harry to fully relax and to be able to enjoy it as much as possible, Louis sucked lightly on his hole, kissing sloppily against it before lapping it faster, kneading Harry's arse either side at the same time. And when Louis’ tongue plunged slightly into his hole, Harry finally let go.

“O-Oh,’’ He gasped, his stomach arching from the bed, fingers opening and sliding up the sheets only to grab them once more.

Smiling to himself, Louis gave Harry everything he had, forgetting the uncomfort in his cotton pants in order to draw more moans and whimpers from his lover. The sounds Harry made echoed in his ears, pushing him to moan against the damp skin.

Harry shyly and shakily reached a hand behind him, patting the sheets blindly, until Louis brought his hand to his and laced their fingers together, forcing Harry’s hand against the sheets. The pressure Harry had on his hand made Louis moan, face burying even deeper between his thighs.

“L-Lou,’’ Harry tried, cut off by a much louder moan, his free hand tugging on the sheet. “Louis,’’

With one last kiss against Harry’s skin, he detached himself from the skinful skin and raised on his knees, helping Harry to turn around.

Harry watched him with hooded eyes as he got rid of his clothing, their eyes burning with desire, Louis’ mouth swollen and wet, Harry’s cheeks pinkened.

When Louis laid on his side, next to Harry, he hummed an appreciative moan when his mouth was taken right away, Harry’s hands in his hair, tongue in his mouth. The hand not stuck under Harry’s neck went to his chest, slipping under the dress and finding his nipples, only caressing them slightly, back and forth, endlessly.

“How do you feel?” Louis asked against his temple.

Body trembling, Harry licked his lips and lifted his gaze, smiling shyly. “Safe,’’

Pride overtook Louis’ heart, mixed with a big a of smugness that he had a hard time to hide. He did his best to reach under the pillow, kissing Harry to distract him while he coated his fingers with a good amount of lube.

“Yeah ? Does it feel good, darling ?” He asked against Harry’s ear, nibbling at his lobe while his fingers disappeared between his thighs, sliding against the already damp skin.

Harry’s reaction was to tense once more, swallowing and fingers tightening on Louis’ back. “Shhh,’’ Louis hummed, “Did you ever touch yourself this way, darling?”

Harry whined and shook his head, closing his eyes possibly to try to regain his composure. “N-No,’’ He turned his face toward Louis’, green doe eyes staring, “No one’s ever had me like this..’’

Louis had to close his eyes to control himself. Gently, he used his slicked up finger to run the lube over Harry's hole, spreading it around, never stopping his kisses and licks against Harry’s neck. “Tell me how it feels then,’’ He rubbed his slicked finger once more before slowly edging once inside him.

Harry's breath caught in his throat, stomach clenching, before he released the breath in a shaky whimper.

"Okay?" Louis quietly asked, searching for any discomfort on Harry’s face.

When his boy frantically nodded, looking up at him with his lower lip jutting out and his doe eyes glistening, Louis smiled and leaned down for another kiss. The lone finger pushed it with ease, considering the amount of wetness, and Louis kissed him until his middle finger was knuckle-deep.

Harry moaned against his mouth, nodding against his face as if to encourage Louis on. He tempted another one, his index joining the middle one, pushing it inside at a very slow pace. Harry was still tense and tight, but his face was open. His breath was ragged against Louis’ face, each of them followed by a small whimper everytime Louis would move his fingers.

“You’re so good,’’ Louis said, ‘’Feel so good, can’t believe we waited so long to do that.’’

“M-Me neither,’’ Harry rasped with a small smile before he bit down on his lips and let his head fall down on the bed, ‘’Ah,’’

Submerged by praises and kisses, Harry slowly started to relax against the bed, his eyes slipping close in concentration as Louis' third finger entered him. He was still pinching his lips, fighting the sounds his throat begged him to let out. Wanting to hear them, needing to hear them, as soon as Louis dimmed Harry ready enough, he moved his fingers with more intent, more precision and more force.

“M-’’ Harry started, head rising from the bed, eyes looking down at his thighs, wide and shiny. “God,’’ He moaned, back arching and body writhing.

‘’Here?” Louis asked with a smile, curling his fingers just slightly.

“Ah! Y-Yeah, f*ck,’’ Harry licked his lips, legs spreading open on the mattress, ‘’Oh god. I- Louis, you.. Please.’’

“Hm?” Not really listening and lost in Harry’s divine sounds, Louis kept moving his arm in the same motion, Harry’s nails grabbing at his skin.

“P-Please,’’ Harry whimpered, low and broken, ‘’Be inside of me,’’

Unashamedly, Louis moaned in his ear, “Baby,’’ He moved his fingers with more purpose, until Harry pushed on his arm, closing his legs with a loud moan and a shiver.

Rolling on top of his boy, Louis gripped both of his thighs and raised them against his hips, both of them moaning in their mouths when Louis’ wet erection slipped right against the wetness of Harry’ skin. The kiss was bruising, a clash of tongues and teeth, Harry’ desperate hands clawing at Louis’ skin, caressing his back and arms, wanting.

Gripping himself with one hand, he took Harry’s lips once more. ‘’Tell me if it’s too much,’’ He kissed him once more, ‘’Tell me if you need to stop,’’ He pressed the head of his co*ck against Harry’s hole, “I love you,’’

Harry held his breath as Louis slowly edged his co*ck inside, his words dying on his tongue.

Louis went slowly, entering and coming out inch by inch, worried eyes never leaving those green eyes, watering with tears.

"Oh-." Harry barely whispered, eyes fluttering shut momentarily before opening to look at Louis again. He arched his back to adjust his hips on the mattress, hands tight on Louis’ hips. “My god,’’

“Relax, sunshine.’’ Louis repeated against his ear, pushing in deeper, slower, until Harry’s body accorded him entrance, letting him be pressed completely against his skin. “Good boy." Louis praised in whispers, brushing Harry's hair from his eyes. "You're so good."

In the warmth of Louis' embrace, Harry felt a sense of liberation wash over him, like a phoenix rising from the ashes of self-doubt and shame. For in the arms of the one who cherished him unconditionally, he found the courage to embrace every facet of his being – his desires, his femininity, his truth.

With a whine, he tightened his thighs around him, arms circling his neck, searching for his gaze.

Louis' lips, soft as rose petals, traced a path of fire across Harry's skin, leaving a trail of longing and desire in their wake.

And with each whispered declaration of love, each sigh that escaped their lips, they wove a tapestry of passion and devotion that bound them together as one.

The first strokes caused Harry to grimace, the sensation foreign and the fullness making his skin burn. “No,’’ He complained, ‘’Don’t stop,’’ He pressed his hands onto Louis’ back, ‘’I want to feel everything,’’

Louis moaned once more. Harry’s inexperience mixed with the way he spoke, the way he whispered and how he sounded made him dizzy with need. Heat was coiling in his own body, merely from Harry and everything about him.

And when Harry reached for the hem of his dress, and with the most beautiful arch of his back, slowly took it off above his head and let it rest on the pillows, looking up at Louis like the angel he was, Louis couldn’t help but roll his hips with more intent.

“Hm,’’ Harry moaned, low and timid, his arms spread each side of his face, chest heaving and eyes almost shut.

“So good,’’ Louis whispered and leaned down to lick at his nipples, his hips now stuck in a rhythm of sensuality, skin gliding against his lover.

“Louis,’’ Harry answered in the same tone, like a secret. His fingers found Louis’ hair, maintaining his head against his chest as he arched, his hips starting to join the motion, mouth falling open by the shock of pleasure.

And in that moment, as their bodies intertwined in a dance as old as time itself, Harry felt a sense of liberation wash over him. With each breath shared, each heartbeat echoed, he found himself letting go of the shackles of shame and self-doubt that had bound him for so long.

Louis’ face came into focus in front of him, their hands joining and intertwining against the sheets, ”You’re still holding back, just let go.” Louis rasped in between two breaths. “How does it feel?”

Harry looked up at him, mouth coming open a little more after each thrust, his face slowly morphing into a grimace of pleasure and sin. ‘’Oh, God-” He fought to keep his eyes open, mossy green rolling in the back of his head, “Ah,’’ He hissed, fingers tightening against Louis’. “G-Good, it’s good,’’

Parting his knees only slightly to be able to still hold Harry’s hands, Louis slid deeper in, and Harry’s head tilted back in dramatic motion, a long sigh escaping his mouth.‘’f*ck, it’s so good.’’

Louis smiled, his hips moving faster, thrusting and forcing Harry’s body upwards with each thrust. “Ah!” One of Harry’s hands slipped away, slamming on the bed, gripping at the sheets, feet coming flat against the mattress. “Oh, yes, yes, L-”

“Tell me,’’ He rose on his knees, drawing Harry’ thighs on top of his own, letting his feet rest flat on the mattress. And with two hands on Harry’s hips, he bucked his hips upward, admiring the way Harry’s mouth fell open and his head flew backward, hands helpless around his head. ‘’Tell me how you feel,’’

“Good,’’ He whimpered, high and broken, ‘’Oh, it’s so good, f*cking- good,’’ He nodded with a delirious smile, a small laugh escaping him, one hand leaving the sheet to slide on his own stomach, grabbing at his own co*ck, “Hm, f*ck,’’

“You feel so good on me, darling.’’ Louis rasped, biting at Harry’s jaw,, “The best I’ve ever had,’’

Harry started to move his lower body, hips rolling and undulating, lips stuck in between his bunny teeth and his eyes never leaving Louis’ body. “Jesus,’’ Louis moaned back, nails digging in Harry’s skin, bodies surrendering to each other in a dance of lust and passion.

“f*ck, Louis!” His fingernails digged into the meat of Louis’ thigh, his mouth hanging open sinful as he stared, ‘’Oh, God-” His eyes rolled once, twice, ‘’f*ck! Lou-’’

“Come darling,” Louis urged, voice teetering on desperation, uncontrolled thrusts now becoming purposeful grinds against his prostate. “Let go, love,’’”

Harry’s body was wonderful as it started to shake, his mouth open wide, eyebrow drawn together, his hand moving relentlessly on his own co*ck, ‘’Ah, Louis, I’m- ah,” His lashes clumping together with tears that still haven’t fallen, he looked up at Louis, pleading, “Oh m-my god,”

“f*ck,” Louis moaned, feeling Harry clenched against him, sloppying his thrusts until pleasure tightened. He lost control of his movement as soon as Harry arched his back, a loud “Louis,’’ escaping his lips, ropes and ropes splattering his own stomach.

Louis' hips pursued the bliss for just two more thrust, his eyes squeezing shut against the white spots in his vision. Only a weak groan spilled from his lips as he slowly pulled out, massing Harry’s knees, trying to regain control of his breathing.

As his heart settled into a steadier pace, Louis raised his head and slowly blinked his eyes into focus, bringing his hands up Harry’s thighs, running soothing circles on the skin. “Darling?”

Blinking slowly, Harry opened his eyes, picture perfect of those renaissance paintings Louis loved to keep exposed in his flat back in London. The atmosphere was still heavy, charged with so many unsaid words. But Harry’s eyes were shining, cheeks wet and lips wombling. He raised his arms, fingers making some sort of grabbing motions for Louis, and immediately, Louis leaned back down.

Harry took his face in his shaky hands, craning his neck and pressing their lips with force, eyes clenched shut. They breathed heavy through their noses, breath still coming out ragged and uneven, and Louis let himself fall down slowly, rolling on his side with Harry following in order not to break the kiss.

“Are you okay, love?” Louis asked with worry, numb fingers brushing Harry’s hair away from his reddened face. “Why are you crying, sunshine?”

“I love you,’’

An hour later, as they sat on the small balcony bench, enveloped in each other's warmth, Harry couldn't tear his gaze away from the mesmerising view of the Parisian skyline. The city seemed to pulse with life, its lights twinkling like stars against the canvas of the fading sunset. Notre Dame stood majestic in the distance, a timeless symbol of resilience and beauty.

Louis's arm around him provided a sense of security, his touch gentle yet reassuring. Harry leaned into him, relishing the comfort of their shared intimacy. Louis smoked quietly, the soft tendrils of smoke curling into the evening air, while his fingers traced intricate patterns on Harry's bare arm.

"And so now I teach," Louis spoke softly, his voice carrying a sense of fulfilment. "I'm an English Literature professor at the Sorbonne."

Harry's heart swelled with pride at Louis's accomplishment. "That's incredible, Louis. You're making a real difference." He took the cigarette from Louis’ finger, bringing it into his lips, "Did you keep in contact with Liam? Or Zayn?" Harry inquired, curiosity tugging at his thoughts.

Louis's expression softened, his gaze distant for a moment before returning to meet Harry's. "Kind of. I'm still fighting for people like us."

The bond between them deepened with each shared moment, their intertwined fingers speaking volumes of the unspoken connection they shared. Harry marvelled at Louis's unwavering dedication to his beliefs, his passion igniting a fire within Harry's own soul.

"You inspire me, Louis," Harry confessed, his voice filled with admiration. "Your strength, your resilience – it's truly remarkable."

Louis's grip tightened around Harry's hand, a silent acknowledgment of their shared journey. "And you, Harry," Louis murmured, his voice laced with affection. "You're my rock, my guiding light. With you by my side, I know we can overcome anything."

Chapter 22: Paris

Chapter Text

1975

A year had passed since Harry and Louis embarked on their journey together, weaving their lives into a tapestry of love and shared dreams. In the cosy confines of Louis' flat in Paris, they found solace in each other's arms, their home a sanctuary of warmth and acceptance.

Unfortunately, during the summer, Matilde's untimely departure left Harry reeling with a whirlwind of emotions.

Despite their lack of blood relation, Matilde had been a mother figure to him, guiding him with her wisdom and nurturing his passion for baking. And now, as he stood amidst the remnants of her legacy, Harry found himself facing a new chapter in his life.

With the unwavering support of Louis by his side, Harry made the bold decision to forge ahead, seizing the opportunity that Matilde had left him. Inheriting all of her possessions, Harry embarked on a journey to honour her memory by opening his own bakery. He called it Matilda.

Nestled in the heart of the Marais, an area renowned for its vibrant queer community, Harry's bakery became a beacon of hope and acceptance. The bakery had flourished under his care, its doors open wide to welcome all who sought refuge in its embrace. With Matilde's recipes as their foundation, Harry poured his hearts into every loaf of bread, every pastry, infusing each creation with a sprinkle of magic and a dash of love.

His hair had grown longer, cascading in soft waves down to his shoulders, a reflection of the newfound freedom he had discovered in embracing his true self. Eager to show his support for Louis' activism, he also now had a small triangle tattooed on his ankle, a symbol of their solidarity and commitment to the cause.

In remembrance of Zayn, rainbow flags adorned the terrace, Harry and Louis proudly proclaimed their solidarity with the queer community, spreading a message of love and inclusivity to all who passed by.

Meanwhile, Louis continued to lead a double life of a dedicated teacher and a passionate advocate for the queer cause.

His classroom became a platform for empowerment, where he instilled in his students the importance of empathy, understanding, and acceptance.

And beyond the confines of the classroom, he tirelessly fought for the rights and freedoms of their community, organising rallies, meeting with local officials, and never backing down in the face of adversity.

He became a fellow and important partisan of the hom*osexual revolutionary action front, still keeping up with the actions of the GLF in England. He was even the inquisitor of an important manifestation, taking place in the Jardin des Tuileries, for the GLF second anniversary. And even if that day, the police came in and ruined everything, Louis came home with even more energy and devotion for the cause.

One afternoon, as the golden rays of the setting sun streamed through the windows, casting a warm glow upon the worn wooden floors of their cosy apartment, Harry returned home from the bakery, his arms laden with the bounty of the local market. The scent of freshly baked bread lingered on his skin, mingling with the earthy aroma of the vegetables and fruits nestled in the bags he carried.

His hair was a wild tangle of curls, flecked with streaks of flour and dough that clung stubbornly to the strands. With a determined stride, he made his way into the kitchen, where Louis stood at the door frame, his glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose, a quizzical expression etched upon his features.

"I really don't get it," Harry began, his voice a mix of frustration and bewilderment as he emptied the contents of his bags onto the worn countertop. "I don't understand why they have to differentiate between feminine and masculine. How am I supposed to know which is which?"

Louis listened intently as Harry launched into a spirited tirade, his gestures animated and his words tumbling out in a rush of passion. With each exasperated gesture, a cloud of flour billowed around him, adding to the chaos of the moment.

"I mean, it's 'un croissant' but it's 'une baguette,' but then there's also 'un pain' and 'du pain,'" Harry continued, his hands flying in all directions as he tried to make sense of the linguistic maze before him. "It doesn't make sense, honestly."

Louis watched in amusem*nt, his heart swelling with affection for the man who never failed to brighten his days with his boundless energy and infectious enthusiasm. As Harry moved about the kitchen, organising the groceries with a sense of purpose, Louis couldn't help but feel a surge of love for the man standing before him.

But amidst the chaos of Harry's ramblings and the flurry of flour that surrounded him, Louis found himself struck by a sudden realisation. With a sudden clarity that took his breath away, he knew in that moment what he had been longing to say for so long.

"So I told her ''Je voudrais un kilo de pomme de terre" and then she said "Des patates?" And I didn't know what it meant! And you were not here, and I don't know why they have two words for the same thing. It's trul-''

"Marry me."

As Harry stood in the midst of their cosy kitchen, his hands cradling a loaf of freshly baked bread, he felt a jolt of shock course through him as Louis' words hung in the air like a delicate melody. His heart skipped a beat, his mind struggling to comprehend the enormity of what Louis had just asked.

He slowly turned, fully facing Louis, his mouth agape as he stared at Louis with wide eyes, unable to form a coherent response. The loaf of bread slipped from his grasp, forgotten as it tumbled to the countertop with a soft thud.

Louis watched, his own emotions threatening to overwhelm him as he took in Harry's stunned expression. His heart ached with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation, his hands trembling with the weight of the moment.

"Louis," Harry repeated, his voice barely above a whisper, choked with emotion.

"Marry me."

Louis watched as tears welled in Harry's eyes, mirroring the shimmering pools in his own. With trembling hands, Harry reached out to cup Louis' face, his touch gentle yet filled with an overwhelming depth of love and gratitude. "I... I don't know what to say," he managed, his voice thick with emotion.

Louis felt his heart constrict with the intensity of his feelings, his love for Harry threatening to spill over in a flood of emotion. "I know we technically can't..," he began, his voice quivering with raw vulnerability. "I don't even have a ring, but.. I just- I've loved you since we were teenagers, since the moment I first laid eyes on you."

Tears streamed down Harry's cheeks as he listened to Louis' heartfelt confession, each word carving a deeper notch into his already overflowing heart. "Louis," he choked out, his voice trembling with emotion. "I... I love you more than words can express. You've been my everything, my partner, my confidant, my soulmate."

"Marry me?"

Then, as if a dam had burst within him, Harry let out a shuddering breath and whispered, "Yes. Yes, Louis, a thousand times yes."

A burst of laughter bubbled up from within Harry, mingling with his tears as joy washed over him. Louis echoed his laughter, the sound a symphony of love and happiness as he pulled Harry into a fierce embrace.

Through their tears and laughter, Louis leaned in for a kiss, their lips meeting in a sweet collision of love and devotion. But as they parted, Harry's words hung heavy in the air, a declaration of his unwavering commitment.

"I'll buy you a ring, I promise," Louis began, his voice filled with determination. "And we can have a party, or we could find you a dr-"

But before Louis could finish his sentence, Harry interrupted him with a surprising revelation. "I want to be called Tomlinson," Harry declared, his voice steady with newfound certainty.

Louis' eyes widened in surprise, his heart swelling with love for the man standing before him. "What?" he asked, his voice filled with awe and wonder.

"Honey," Harry began, his voice soft yet filled with unwavering conviction. "I want to be Harry Tomlinson because... because I want to start anew, to leave behind the weight of my past and embrace a future filled with love and possibility." He paused, searching for the right words to convey the depth of his feelings. "For so long, I've felt like I've been carrying around the burden of my family name, of everything it represents. But with you, Louis, I feel like I can finally let go of that weight. I want to be fully and completely with you, to share not just our lives but our very identities." Harry looked into Louis' eyes, his gaze unwavering as he spoke from the depths of his heart. "Taking your family name isn't just about a legal change or a formality – it's a symbol of my commitment to you, of our shared journey towards a future filled with love and happiness. And I can't think of anyone else I'd rather share that journey with than you, Louis."

Louis felt a surge of emotion welling up inside him, threatening to spill over. Tears pooled in his eyes, blurring his vision as he gazed at Harry with a mixture of awe and overwhelming love. “f*ck,’’ He whispered, bringing the heels of his hand against his eyes. A rush of warmth flooded his chest at Harry's words, his heart swelling with an indescribable sense of joy and contentment. "Oh, Harry," he breathed, pulling him into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around him as if he never wanted to let go.

And so they stood entwined in each other's arms in the flickering light of the kitchen, Harry's flour-dusted body pressed against Louis' perfect suit, they laughed and cried and swayed to the rhythm of their shared heartbeat.

Bathed in the glow of their love, they knew that together, they could weather any storm.

Chapter 23: Epilogue : A lifetime of love

Chapter Text

As the years passed, Harry and Louis built a life together that was filled with joy, love, sex and endless adventures.

With Louis' professor salary, they purchased a charming house in the heart of Paris, a sanctuary where they could create countless memories together. Clifford, their dogs, had become their children, being treated like a real prince in the heart of the house, having a special place in Louis’ heart.

Their days were spent basking in the warmth of their love, their nights alive with passion and desire. They travelled the world hand in hand, exploring exotic destinations and discovering new cultures. It was during a trip to Italy that Harry fell in love with the country's charm and beauty, declaring it the place he wanted to spend his twilight years, with Louis by his side.

In the rush of impulsivity, Liam and Zayn boarded a flight to France, their hearts brimming with anticipation and excitement.

Whether it was the enchanting Parisian air, the tantalising aroma of French cuisine, or perhaps the palpable love that radiated between Harry and Louis, the couple decided to extend their visit indefinitely.

Harry's elation knew no bounds when he saw Liam and Zayn walking hand in hand, their smiles mirroring his own. As Liam settled into a modest job, Zayn eagerly joined Harry in the bakery, their shared passion for creating delicious treats blossoming into a thriving business. Together, they expanded the bakery into a cosy coffee shop, where locals and tourists alike were drawn in by the irresistible scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries. Zayn quickly became Harry's closest friend and confidant, their bond strengthened by shared dreams and late-night conversations over cups of steaming tea.

In 1977, France organised its first gay parade, and the four of them proudly marched together, hand in hand, as a symbol of their love and solidarity with the queer community. Harry's eyes sparkled with unbridled joy as he walked the streets in a charming pink overall, his laughter ringing out as he waved rainbow flags with exuberance. Louis stood by his side, his heart swelling with pride as he watched his partner's infectious enthusiasm light up the crowd.

With newfound zeal, Zayn took it upon himself to distribute rainbow flags to everyone at the parade, his determination to spread love and acceptance evident in every gesture. He clung to Liam's arm protectively, a silent promise to always stand by his side and shield him from any harm.

As they marched through the streets of Paris, surrounded by a sea of rainbow flags and smiling faces, Harry felt a profound sense of belonging wash over him.

The turn of the millennium heralded significant milestones for queer rights, marking a pivotal moment in history that would forever alter the landscape of equality – and for Louis, it was a deeply personal triumph.

In 2000, Scotland repealed the Section 28 law, a momentous step forward in the fight for LGBTQ+ equality. Three years later, England and Wales followed suit, igniting a spark of hope and joy in Louis' heart as he watched the news unfold before him. With tears of elation streaming down his cheeks, he danced with unrestrained joy in front of the television, his heart overflowing with pride and gratitude. For Louis, who had dedicated half of his life to advocating for change, witnessing this historic moment was nothing short of a dream come true – and knowing that he and Harry had played a part in making it happen filled him with an indescribable sense of pride.

Throughout their journey, Gemma had remained a constant source of love and support in Harry's life, her letters serving as a cherished reminder of the unwavering bond they shared. Over time, the letters began to address both Harry and Louis, reflecting the deepening connection and sense of family that had blossomed between them.

But perhaps the most significant moment came in September 2013, when, after 136 hours of heated debate, the Assemblée Nationale passed the historic "mariage pour tous" law, granting same-sex couples the right to marry and adopt children.

As Harry and Louis sat side by side in front of the television that fateful night, watching as the news flashed across the screen, they were overcome with a tidal wave of emotion. Tears filled their eyes as they embraced each other tightly, the weight of the moment sinking in as they realised the magnitude of what had just been achieved.

And so, on the 28th of September, with hearts full of love and anticipation, Louis and Harry rushed to l'Hôtel de ville, where they exchanged vows and became the first gay couple to be married in France.

In surprise and thoroughly organised by Louis, Zayn, Liam, Amelia, Niall, and Gemma all flew over that day, to celebrate their love in a simple yet meaningful ceremony.

That evening, as they gathered in their backyard, laughter and music filling the air, Harry looked around at the faces of the people he loved most in the world. With Louis by his side and their dog playing at their feet, he knew that he was living the life he had always dreamed of – a life filled with love, acceptance, and the unwavering support of those who mattered most.

And as they toasted to their future together, Harry and Louis knew that their love was a force to be reckoned with – a beacon of hope and inspiration for generations to come.

For in the end, it was their love that had triumphed over adversity, their love that had conquered all obstacles, and their love that would continue to light the way forward, forever and always.