Archive of Our Own

"Hello again Curly, you've gotten old.”

You don't see the fairies unless they want you to see them. They watch you from their webs of lichen and spidersilk and you can feel their gazes but when you twist your neck to peer into the branches there's nothing.
Nighttime is worst of all. The light of the moon is brighter here than anywhere you've been before, bouncing off the blanket of pixie-dust that lies over every inch of the glen. It's only visible under this light, hovering above the shrubs like a diamond-filled mist. It stings a little to walk through, biting at your ankles like nettle. This is the discarded dust, shaken off of gossamer wings like a snake sheds its skin, all of the good magic drained away and leaving a pale, bad-tempered residue. All it does is burn.
Louis takes you by the wrists once you explain this, hefts you up to his hip and lets you wrap your legs around him. He can always see the fairies, his head constantly cocked in a way that you know means that one is at his ear, whispering unknown things that make his eyes crinkle and glow. You wish that you knew what they say to him and you are terrified of what they say to him because he comes back from his frolicking looking dazed and distant and forgetting the boys' names. It takes hours for the thrall to wear off, and each time seems longer than the last.

Louis steals his hat almost instantly after he arrives. It doesn't bother Harry; the thing isn't very practical for hiking through the thick foliage of the jungle anyway. While he zips off to find a pond in which to scrutinize his reflection with his new accessory, Harry undoes his bowtie, letting out a deep sigh of relief when the silk parts to let the sweaty skin of his neck breath.

"I look proper dashing yeah?" Louis' voice echoes back to him, followed by the boy himself bobbing upside-down, holding the hat in place with both hands. Harry beams up at him. He does make quite the picture, skin dappled with soft green sunlight, a piece of the forest itself with his spun-gold limbs wrapped in leaves and vines. And now a stovepipe of the finest charcoal velvet atop his tangled hair.

"The most dashing in the land." He agrees, "Putting generations of English gentlemen to shame in one fell swoop."

"But of course!" Louis crows, flipping right-side-up to slide an arm over Harry's shoulders, the very tips of his flexed toes barely brushing the moss. He's a scorching heat along the side of his body, seeping through the triple layer of Harry's school uniform. "I'm incomparable after all. Unbeatable. Legendary."

It's called the hideout and it's an apt name because you always feel properly hidden there. Louis says it's an abandoned dwarf house, and it seems a logical tale because everything is perfectly sized for your short limbs. You love the smell of fresh earth that permeates the rooms, love how your feet barely make a sound on the soft carpet of dry moss. You love that you don't have to strain to reach the counters, or stand on a stool to get at the cupboards. You sleep curled up in a nest of furs with the boys. Louis will join later on, when the rest are asleep but you'll have waited up so that you can wiggle over to him when he settles down. He'll laugh and chide you for being awake so late, but open his arms for a cuddle without fail. You'll rest your cheek against his heart, which is so slow and faint that it had scared you the first time but now you know it's just how he is made. His skin smells of wind and rain and sun, and he'll start to sing quietly. He sings wild songs of bird-cries and lightning-bolts, his voice dipping and popping in your ear. It rasps like trees bark and smooths like creek-water. His breath on your face smells like pine, his fingers in your hair set you to dreaming.

Harry has to stoop. It shouldn't be as surprising as it is that the tunnel is too small now, forcing him over, shoulders hunched even more than usual, knees crooking awkwardly down the sloping path. Louis had zoomed down ahead, unaffected by such trite concepts as space or gravity. When Harry emerges from the narrow passage, tripping slightly over the raised root that lies across the entrance, he's got his feet on the ground for the first time since Harry got here. The hat is set on the table since the roof is so low that there's barley an inch of clearance between his head and the dirt. It’s as if the den was tailor-made for him but no one even the slightest bit taller. Harry on the other hand, is starting to feel a crick in his neck from ducking, and thin tendrils of roots keep tickling his face.

It's probably around midday, judging by how the sun had been steaming straight down through the trees, so the hideout is deserted. Signs of life show in the disaster of crumbs and empty nut shells littering the living area, the filthy clothes piling in the corners. Harry treads in a lump of rotten fruit, getting fetid pulp all over the toe of his dress shoe. He would take the bloody uncomfortable things off, but the floor is so dirty that he'd probably cut his foot on a prickly chestnut casing.

"Looks like everyone's out." Harry hums, sidling to stand beside Louis. He can't get over how different the boy looks from this height. Despite the fact that his features are exactly the same, from above he's softer, all curved cheeks, softly fanned lashes and small round nose. Harry's memories of him are ancient and huge, but this Louis is young and small.

"Oi Oi Oi!" Louis hollers without warning, hands cupped around his mouth to send the yell reverberating through the cavern. "Where are my boys?"

There's a crash from the pantry and a figure bolts from the small closet. It's a little boy who looks about eight, although it's hard to say because he's enormously fat so could easily be younger. "Louis!" He squeals, rushing straight to them in an awkward run-waddle, crashing into Louis' legs to wrap his dimply arms around his waist. "You've come back!"

"'Course I have!" The older boy scoffs, ruffling the frizz of blond hair pressed against his stomach. His nose is wrinkled a bit in disgust, at the child's fingers and chin which are stained with bright purple berry juice. "Always do don't I?"

"But this time was ages." The child whines. He's wearing a baggy T-shirt and nothing else, the fabric threadbare and grimy, falling to his pudgy knees. There are great circles of sweat under his arms and at the neck. "I've missed you!"

"Yes, yes." Louis hums, already losing interest. He plucks the child's short fingers loose and steers him gently aside. "Now, dear..." He trails off, squints down at the child. "My dear Tubby. How about you go collect the lads? We're throwing a proper party and there's much to do."

"A party?" The kid's face does a sort of jiggle - like a plate of pudding - into a delighted expression. "Do ya mean it for real Lou?"

"Yeah for real what doya take me for Tubs? Now hurry your butt out and get the lads 'aight?"

You spend the days exploring the island. It's exhilarating to have the freedom to roam the wild unsupervised, to be allowed to run naked and have nobody rounding you up to force you back into trousers. Your skin is dark with sun and your hair pale with salt, the soles of your feet seem like they'll be black with filth forever.
There's a hierarchy, but it's not like the rigid rules back home. This one is a fluid thing, prone to switch by the hour, liable to be turned on its head. This is an order made of wrestling matches and races down the beach, of who can hold his breath longest and who can climb the tallest tree. You roar like a lion and bare your teeth, and are made king, wear a crown of spiky palm fronds braided with bright yellow flower petals set on your tangled mane. There's a throne of jagged black rock overlooking the tide-pools and you ignore the sharp edges digging into your legs to oversee your kingdom. But by the next morning you have been overthrown in a bamboo-shoot duel and are demoted to the rank of soldier and sent to patrol the mango groves while today's king mounts your lost alter.
The one exemption to this tumultuous life is Louis. Louis Louis Louis who is the god to your kings and soldiers and noblemen. Louis who can swoop into one of your games and reduce you all to giggling balls of adoration and love. Louis who your eyes track across the sky, who spurs white-hot jealousy that sometimes feels like hatred in your gut when he hugs one of the other boys, who will wink cheekily at you over the heads of the others to remind you that even though he is everyone's favourite, by some mysterious twist of luck you are his, his only ever favourite.

Harry waits for a familiar face to appear, but the last boy files in and there's not a single one.

"Well you've already met Tubby." Louis says once all of the kids have managed to form a semi-orderly queue in the largest of the chambers. Louis is sat cross-legged in midair, knee occasionally knocking against Harry's shoulder where he's perched awkwardly on a too-small stool, legs bent nearly to his chest in his attempt to take up as little space as necessary.

The blond boy - Tubby - looks ready to explode with pride over being the one to have called the gathering. His swollen cheeks bulge in an enormous grin, still smeared with juice. Louis waves his hand to point at the child to Tubby's left, a mousy looking boy whose eyes are fixed determinedly on the floor. "This 'ere's Bumble, next to him is Sparky, then Chip, Ghost, Twig, Blondy, and Ears."

Each boy squirms as Louis finger lands on them, blinking up at Harry distrustfully. Harry tries to smile, wiggles his fingers in a wave. He knows it must be bizarre for them, can imagine how weird it must be to see a grown-up (never mind the fact that Harry is only sixteen and doesn't feel remotely like an adult yet) for the first time in who knows how long. "So that's the lads." Louis continues, spinning a full circle before coming to a halt directly in front of Harry. "And lads, this here is Curly."

There's a pause while the children stare balefully at where Louis is twining himself around Harry, arms looped around his neck and chin hooked into his shoulder while his lower body swings to hang horizontally behind them. Then a small, sickly pale boy with ash blond hair and dull grey eyes shuffles forward and says boldly, "But Lou...he's so old!"

Louis lets go of Harry and drifts over to push his face level with the boy's. "Nuh uh Ghosty Ghost, none of that now." He clucks, pinching the child's pasty cheek. "He's one of us. He's special. Understand?" The boys all nod, but once Louis' back is turned, their faces fall back into the weary expressions. "Alright then, let’s get this started! Twiggy be a dear and go fetch some firewood, we'll be needing lots so take Ears with you." A gangly kid, the tallest in the group nods silently and scampers away, a round-faced boy with predictably large ears poking from amongst his dirty hair follows at his heels.

Louis goes about giving each boy a job, sending some to collect fruit, some to harvest mussels and clams from the shore, some to go about squeezing berries and mixing them with water to make juice. Once the burrow is full of bustling children, he turns back to Harry and grins. "And you Curly can help me set up." He declares, swooping to the sleeping area to grab and armful of furs which he thrusts into Harry's chest. "Come on."

Harry struggles back up the tunnel, this time with Louis behind him, fingers prodding painfully at his backside. The sun is still high as they make the short stroll to the clearing by the pond where they always had picnics. The path there is well trodden and burned into Harry's memory. He sets about arranging the furs in a circle on the great flat slab of rock that borders half the pool while Louis lounges an inch above the surface of the water, trailing the tips of his fingers leisurely for the turtles to mouth at.

It's peaceful and warm with the trill of birds and buzzing of tree frogs providing a background for the story Louis is telling about his most recent trip to the fairy glens. Harry settles back into the grass and lets the warm sun soak into his skin, lighting his closed eyelids with crimson. Louis voice fills his ears and chases away the last lingering stress from his mind. Harry has returned.

Some pieces of Louis (only mostly) forgotten.

There's a boy, three years old, asleep in bed. There's a sound in the dark. Now there's a boy awake. Feet slide down a too-tall mattress, cross the floor, cross the hall. Caution in a small hand pushing through a half-open door. There is a woman on the floor. The boy calls her mother even though they share no blood. The woman is crying, white gown rucked indecently high on her pale thighs. There is bright bright crimson down her front. The boy is frightened. The boy runs to her because he's frightened and women called mother are supposed to protect their boys. There is a shriek. The woman lashes out, skin meets skin. There are feet on the floor, running now, fleeing. A toe catches on the rug and a small body hits the hardwood. A tooth sinks into a lip. More blood down a wobbling pointed chin. There is yelling, "Not mine! You aren't mine get out get out!" And then wailing. "My baby oh! My baby!" The boy is frightened and confused and in pain. There is a young voice crying, "Mama, mama!"

There is a boy, six years old. There is a baby, one day old. The woman he calls mother is holding the baby. His father is holding the boy up to look at the baby. "Georgia." The man says. "Little sister." Is what the boy is supposed to call her, even though they only share half blood. The baby is small and pink and wrinkled like a raisin. She's bald and has creases in strange places like her forearm and the back of her neck. The boy thinks she's odd looking. The man and woman say she's beautiful. Eventually the man leaves again. He is gone more often than not. It's just the boy and the woman and the baby now. The woman forgets to make the boy lunch. He eats bread crusts and too-ripe fruits while she locks herself and the baby away in the drawing room. She sings to the baby, and the words are too muffled for the boy to hear through the walls.

There is a boy, nine years old. There is a building, tall and black that blocks out the sun. School, they say, his home now. The carriage that brought the boy slams shut without warning, two brown mares lurch into motion and disappear down the lane. Two women in black and white gowns stand on either side of the boy. He's meant to call them 'mother' and 'sister' even though they share no blood. There are other boys. There are books and slates and canes crashing down on tender young flesh. There are rows of beds with sharp springs and itchy blankets. There are many 'mothers' and 'sisters' and one man he's to call 'father'. The boy asks to go home. "This is your home now." They tell him. The boy thinks of his old home with his old 'mother' and the little 'sister' with eyes bluer than his and hair softer than his and skin pinker than his and he begins to understand.

There is a boy, twelve years old. His arms are covered in welts, whenever one heals another comes crashing down. Whenever his mouth dares to curl into a laugh, harsh words chase it away to make room for a fractured pout. The other boys all go home for a month in the summer, and two weeks in the winter. There is never a carriage sent for him so he spends the holidays cleaning and doing chores and in extra bible study which is boring and the boy hates it. He has acquired a whole new language within these hallowed chambers. Words like 'Bastard' and 'Motherless' and 'Runt'. He knows that they all mean the same thing. They all mean 'unloveable'. They all explain many things.

There is a boy, fifteen years old, always in trouble. The "sisters" whisper about this boy, with too-bright eyes and a too-wide smile who is always shouting, always with welts on his arms. “This one has the devil's fire burning in his soul”, they hiss. The other boys in the school laugh at this devil-bright boy, delight in his pranks and crude jokes. But when authority looms and the "father" is called in, the crowd parts easily to leave the boy to take the blows that follow alone.

There is a boy, eighteen years old. There is a rough-spun canvas bag in his hands, in it is everything he owns. In total: one pair of striped pajamas, one comb, one rarely opened bible, one battered set of checkers. Words follow him. "Lost cause" and "wasting his good father's money." and "No longer welcome here." For the first time since the boy was nine, there is a carriage waiting for him.

The mermaids are lovely.Lovely until you get close enough for them to touch you, and skin-to-skin the illusion shimmers like a mirage and you can see the mottled grey skin swollen shut eyes and serrated teeth and thin, patchy hair. They will grab at you and latch onto your clothes, fingers tacky with salt. They will try to pull off your toes with vice-like grips, pry your legs apart and wretch the joints of your knees sideways. They will tear holes in your clothes to get at your skin, and pinch your eyelids together. They will try to force bitter sea water into your mouth and your nose, your ears and the corners of your eyes.
Louis will save you (eventually) darting in above the tide pools from where he always gets distracted by the pretty anemones. He will pull you up and away and stroke your wet hair and kiss the bloody scrapes on your cheeks. "Just a laugh." He will coo, "the girls do love their jokes." You will shiver into his shoulder and picture the warped curve of their wrinkled fish lips and think that it hadn't felt like a joke at all.

"Lou, where are the others?" The question has been fighting against the back of Harry's teeth since the boys had gathered and there hadn't been a single familiar face. He's inexplicably nervous to ask, it's Louis after all, his best friend in the world. Years apart hasn't changed that.

But still, each time he parts his lips, gathers the breath to form the words, his heart skips and he can't do it. It doesn't make sense, but he gets the feeling that asking about them will be a breaking point. That something will snap if he does, and set unpleasant things loose on this wonderful sunny day, his first day back.

"My shadow went missing." Louis says absently after the silence hangs too long. He's come away from the water at last, after getting caught up gazing at his own reflection for some minutes. He'd only looked up when a water snake dropped from an overhanging branch, sending ripples across the surface and disrupting the mirror-like liquid. "It was gone for some time. I had to go wrangle it back."

Harry's eyes go immediately to where Louis' arm is flung over a patch of clover. Sure as anything there's his shadow, securely shading the greens and purples. "Was it difficult?" He asks, wanting to reach out and embrace the other boy, as if he could physically keep him from falling to pieces. "Was it very uncooperative?"

"It's always uncooperative." Louis scoffs, like it's no big thing. "I can feel it now, buzzing and squirming, trying to escape. It's no match for me though; I've got it under control."

"But it did escape Lou, and not for the first time. I remember when it happened before. You were terrified."

"Was I?" Louis mumbles, tipping his chin back, the blue of his eyes overlapped by the azure of the sky through a patch in the branches. "I don't think I was. It happens often enough. It's normal."

Harry frowns, remembering that frantic day when Louis had woke up without a shadow. He'd trashed the burrow in his fright, eyes wide and rolling, mouth open in a seemingly never ending howl of distress. The boys had been utterly at a loss as to what to do, they'd never seen Louis scared before, it was a shock that it was even possible. The shadow had been missing for a full three hours before one of them had spotted it in the noonday sun of the meadow, like an injured bird fluttering in uneven circles. Louis had cried in relief, and rewarded them all with rides above the trees on his shoulders. "Is it normal?"

"Why yes of course. Perfectly understandable. Can you imagine being tethered down at all times? You'd want to wander off occasionally too."

Harry's not so sure about that, but he's learned that it's easier not to think too hard about most of what Louis says. "How long did it take to find this time?"

"Not long at all really." Louis hums, snapping the stem of one flower, and rolling it between his fingers. "Found it wandering about in the mountains after a few days."

A few days is a lot longer than Harry was expecting, and frankly, it's worrying. But he can tell that Louis has already lost interest, his attention wandering as he rips tiny purple and cream petals apart, and sends the scraps falling over his bare chest. Harry doesn't want him to get bored and leave.

"Lou, where are the others?" It's out before he loses resolve. He tenses immediately, eyes fixed on Louis for any sign that he's upset him. But there's no visible change to the boy's demeanour, he rolls his head to look more directly at Harry, eyes wide and guileless.

"The lads? They're still gathering the food I reckon. Are you very hungry? I think there's a stash of nectar close by, do you want some?"

"Wha-? No!" Harry exclaims, feeling his face fold into a perplexed frown. Louis has never, ever offered him nectar before. Nectar belongs to the fairies, and he'd always made it clear that they were not to touch the fairy food, no matter how delicious it looked or how hungry they were.

"Then what's the hurry? It's a lovely day and you've finally come back to me. Enjoy it."

Harry can't. Seeing Louis again after all this time is amazing yes, but he'd been almost as excited to be reunited with the lads. Louis is his...his Louis, always will be the most important one, but the boys were his brothers in every way that counted. "I meant the others. Where are they Lou? Where are Niall and Liam and Zayn?"

Louis is lying with his body sprawled flat, his shoulders and neck twisted to face Harry. His hair is falling in soft, slightly frizzy clumps away from his face, and it looks like a halo lit rich gold in a beam of sun. His eyes stare up, glassy and such a pale blue that they're nearly silver. "Who?"

Liam arrives after you've been here for a blur of days, or maybe weeks or months: long enough for this to feel more like home than anywhere you've been before. Liam arrives and Louis becomes utterly absorbed in the new boy. Falling out of Louis' centre of attention is like being plunged into a sudden, unexpected winter when all you've ever known is summer. Louis lets Liam hang off his back while he flies, gives Liam the biggest juiciest figs at lunch, combs his fingers through Liam's curly hair and coos and praises and calls him 'Brown Eyes.' You wait up for Louis at night as usual but when the curtain is drawn back and he comes into the sleeping space, he floats right over you and falls into the fur beside Liam, pulling the boy's pudgy limbs close and arranging him against his chest. You can still hear his lullabies, but you can't smell his smell or feel his heat.
The others don't care. They weren't ever Louis' favourites, they don't know what they're missing. You know. You know and you hate it and you start to hate Liam.You've never hated anyone before, and you quickly decide that it's not fun at all. It feels alien and wrong to feel instantly grumpy whenever he looks at the other boy's face. But Liam isn't helping his own case, he's boring and bossy and thinks that just because Louis likes him best now he gets to be in charge. So you decide to run away.

"Stop that!" Louis snaps eventually, lighting from the ground and making his little brood startle and stare. "Stop /looking/ at me like that. I don't like it."

Harry tries to school his face. He's been watching Louis carefully for the past hour, since the moment the lads had interrupted them before Harry got his answers. "Sorry." He mumbles, tossing an empty oyster shell into the small fire-pit.

"If you're really sorry stop making that face." Louis orders, retreating up into the canopy, half a mango in his hand. He drapes himself in some vines and glares down at Harry with a face shiny with fruit juice. "Go back to my normal, happy curly. I'm not fond of you this way.”

Louis' disapproval doesn't sting quite the same way it did when he was younger. Harry sighs heavily and plucks up a plump red banana from the overflowing fruit baskets, peeling back the crimson skin to get at the creamy pink inside. He feels numb and sad, but the frantic need to make this boy happy that he remembers so keenly has faded into something manageable. "I'll do my best Lou."

"Right you will." Louis hums, carelessly tossing his half-eaten mango skin down, just missing hitting one of the boys. He stretches out in his makeshift hammock to snatch a brilliant handful of flower buds, popping one into his mouth and munching. "You came back to make me happy after all, not sad."

Harry doesn't trust himself to reply in a way that won't upset the other boy, so he keeps his mouth shut and watches Louis lap golden beads of pollen from his fingers, pink tongue quick flashes against his skin.

Around them, Louis' troop of boys are making quick work of the food, tearing into the spread with their grubby bare hands, teeth flashing like animals. All of them are smeared with juice and pulp, they crunch discarded shells and rinds under their feet as they shove their way to get as many goodies as possible. Already their little bodies are swollen full, but their manic eating doesn't slow.

"Lou, eat something before it's all gone." Harry calls. The boy has so far only half-heartedly picked at some fruit. "Try one of the urchins, they're really sweet today."

When he looks up, Louis' face is twisted in distaste. "No, no, I'm not in the mood for fish. I'm fine with these." He tosses a bright purple flower straight up and catches it in his mouth.

Two of the boys are hunched in Louis' faint shadow, gnawing enthusiastically around the bones of the succulent silver fish that get trapped in the pools when the tide is out. Their greasy fingers move over the tiny bones and salty scales, to reach for the last morsel of meat. They squabble and shove at each other, young faces twisted into bared teeth as one pushes the other over, beginning to fight in earnest. Harry looks to Louis, expecting him to swoop in and pry the kids apart, perhaps appease them with a sweet yellow fig while dividing the fish fairly in half. But Louis makes no indication that he even notices the skirmish, head tilted back to bask in the sun with fluttering eyelids.

"Oi!" Harry calls, shuffling closer to the conflict. "Cut it out you two!" He grabs the back of one grimy vest, heaving the child back from his companion. But his opponent follows with a warlike yell, lunging with swinging fists to barrel into both the lad and Harry, unbalancing them into the grass. "Stop!" Harry cries, "Good lord what's the matter with you? Louis! Louis help me out, they're out of control!"

But he’s disappeared, the vines swinging empty above their heads, and Harry watches the flower petals drifting slowly to the ground until a boney elbow crashes into his gut. "Oh." He grunts, heaving the two bodies off him and scrambling clear. He gathers his breath and hollers as loudly as he can. "Everybody STOP!"

There's barley a flicker of acknowledgement, a lifted eye from the lad called Sparky, peering up from beneath ruddy bangs, teeth flecked with scraps of meat. The other boys continue eating with deaf ears, and the fighters keep on scratching at each other. Harry tries one more half-hearted bid for the group's attention, "Will you just listen for a moment?" But gets no response.

He'd like to say that Louis can't have gone far, but it would be wishful thinking. The boy could very well be swooping through the sea foam with a pod of porpoises by now, or playing in the wind atop the cliffs, or deep in the fairy glades where Harry can't reach him. He could have gotten very far indeed.

He finds himself running away from the disaster of a picnic, hurrying through the jungle without regard for the branches plucking at his hair and skin and clothes. As a child he'd never had a problem, darting low amongst the ferns, slipping through the forest unobstructed. Now the canopy hangs around his head, tearing at him with each step. When he finally stumbles into the clearing above the burrow, his cheeks are criss-crossed with scrapes, his hair snarled and full of foliage, his clothes utterly torn up.

"Louis?" He cries, on the slim chance that the boy had returned home instead of going off on one of his flights. Only the forest replies, in creaks and chirps and faint humming.

At a loss of what else to do, Harry shuffles down the tunnel. His back gives a sharp pang of protest, a deep ache settling into his spine as he trudges underground. He hurries to the sleeping den, wincing as each step brings a fresh wave of pain, and falls into the fur with a wheeze.

Spreading out over the soft skins brings relief, his star-fished limbs each scraping a wall of the cave. This, at least, is something that doesn't seem to have changed. The feeling of calm that sinks into him as he breathes in the clean, pungent scent of earth and roots. He closes his eyes and lets the silky feel of the fur slow his heartbeat and chase away the tight panic that had grasped him.

He wishes Louis was here. But, he realizes with another anxious pang, not the Louis that he's just spent the day with. He wants the Louis from his childhood, the steady sunshine boy who could always be relied upon to be there when Harry needed him. Harry wants to be small again, so he can curl into a ball in Louis’ lap and get his hair stroked and brow kissed. He wants to be naive enough to believe that as long as he was wrapped in Louis' arms, the rest of the world doesn't exist.

You don't take much with you when you leave, just a few bananas and nuts bundled up in a blanket, and more importantly, the gifts that Louis gave you, the pearls and shells, feathers and pebbles that he’s bestowed over time. You leave at midday while everyone is scattered along the beach absorbed in games. Louis is with Liam of course, out on the reefs with their feet dangling in the swirling water, their laughter echoing over the cove. The land inclines away from their bay in every direction. The slope is gentle at first, and you hike up the hills at a determined pace. But as the trees thicken, the grade grows steeper, the ground thick with roots that trip you up. You hit the ground and your breath vacates your lungs, and all of a sudden you miss your mother.
The emotion is instantaneous and violent. It all comes in a rush, the soft murmur of her voice, the familiar press of her hand on yours, the sweet perfume she wore in her hair. You ache for her lips on your brow, the creases under her eyes that come with her smile. You scramble to your feet and keep walking. The air feels cooler here than down in the basin, and less muggy. Your senses feel sharper with the crispness, the sun not as blinding to your eyes and the buzz of the forest more subdued. A time passes and another flood of homesickness hits, this time for Gemma. You'd forgotten how bell-like her laugh is, the way she'd twirl her skirts until she was dizzy, just to amuse you. She was the best at making up stories, and you'd sit with her for hours if you could, listening to her beloved voice. How could you ever have forgotten?
There are tears now, streaming down your face. You miss them so much, the need to get to them is overwhelming. How long has it been since you left? The time stretches in his mind, a confusing blur of colour and light.
You emerge into a small clearing and decides to take a break. Pulling out the bananas sends Louis' trinkets spilling into the grass at your feet. A poorly timed gust of wind catches the feathers and sends them spiralling up over the trees. The slope of the ground pulls the other bobbles back the way you'd come. You rush to try and catch them, but they've disappeared into the undergrowth. You start to cry in earnest now, torn between the desire to look for the gifts and the drive to keep going.
Then, a voice, faint over the hills. Louis soars into sight, his path crooked and shaky. He veers wildly over the trees, legs knocking the leaves. You gape as he lands hard, knees buckling. He's gasping fearfully, eyes wide and blaming the thin air for his clumsy flight. He grabs at your hands and smiling beatifically begins to lead you downhill. The memory of your mother's eyes gives you the strength to pull away.
Louis is utterly confused. He protests and pleads and his betrayed expression nearly sways you, but somehow he is easier to deny at this moment. His presence is still bright but it's not blinding, his voice not as deafening.
You promise you will return.
You will.

Louis returns the next morning without his shadow. Harry wishes he was surprised.

Harry had long since vacated the sleeping room to make room for the band of boys who'd trickled in at dusk. They'd barely waited until he was out the door before crowding in, filthy limbs scattering dirt and remains of food while they squabbled for space. Harry edged around them warily, but their bestial aggression from before seemed to have worn off. He spent the night curled uncomfortable beside the kitchen table using his tail-coat for a blanket.

"Curly!" Louis hisses in his ear, startling him out of restless sleep into the still dark burrow. "Wake up it's morning, entertain me!"

"Lou." Harry groans, rolling over and clunking his head against a chair leg. "Did you just get in? Have you slept at all?"

"Doesn't matter, we have more important things to do." Louis scoffs, hands pinching at Harry's cheeks, painfully tugging his earlobe. "Get up get up, there're adventures to be had!"

Harry creaks to his feet. He hurts all over in a deep, vague way. His eyes feel puffy and sensitive. "Where?" He mumbles, "where we goin'?"

"Where aren't we going?" Louis exclaims, bobbing up and down in impatient circles. He looks twitchy, picking up an abandoned shirt, smoothing it in his hands before tossing it back to the ground. "Hurry up so we can get there!"

When they walk up the tunnel and outside, Harry realizes just how early it is. "Louis," he grumps tiredly, "it's still dark out, it must be ages until sunrise."

The thing is, this is familiar. Being coaxed out of bed by this boy, led with a hand on his wrist into the early dawn, blinking sleep out of his eyes as Louis whispers adventures to him, it used to be the best sensation. He remembers how his young heart had pounded in the stillness between night and day, when the nocturnal animals had settled down and the creatures of daylight had yet to stir. It had always been his favourite time, when it seemed as if he and Louis were the only things in the world. Making memories that belonged solely to them.

He tries to relax into that state of mind, to shake off the exhaustion from his night on the hard floor and embrace the peaceful quiet. The path that they're on takes them up shore to the headlands that curve above the bay. The bluff of pale stone zigzags beneath their feet, topped with wildflowers that have yet to open their buds. The plants grow to Harry's waist and his trousers are soon heavy with dew.

"Okay here we are." Louis says when they reach the outermost point, where an arm of bare stone juts out of the waves. The sea arch is about a hundred feet out from the cliff; away from the shelter of the mainland it sits in the open ocean, waves breaking in fantastic bursts of spray. "Hop on." Louis turns his back to Harry, arms crooked behind him in invitation. "That's the best seat to watch the sunrise."

Harry glances at the dark indigo water below, and then at Louis' slender shoulders. "We can't." He says softly, "I'm too big."

Instead of turning around, Louis flips over backward to frown at him upside-down. "What are you on about? We've done it before."

"That was years ago Lou. I've grown since then and you haven't. You wouldn't be able to carry me, and I don't fancy a swim right now."

"I'd never drop you!" Louis cries, nostrils flaring and body twisting so his face is level with Harry's. "I'd never let you go."

"I know you would try not to." Harry soothes, "But I don't think you'd have much of a choice."

"So we can't ever fly together again?" Louis' lip juts unhappily. He crosses his arms and scowls "Why'd you have to go and get bigger? Everything's ruined."

Harry's insides go cold. They've been doing that sporadically since his arrival. "Not everything, we can still have a nice time." He insists. "I actually think right here is the best spot." He lowers himself down. The edge of the bluff is covered in moss, creating natural cushioning. On the horizon the soft glow of the first rays creep into the sky.

Louis drifts over, still pouting. He crosses his legs beside Harry, hovering a few inches off the ground. Harry grabs onto his elbow and yanks him until his arse hits dirt."Hey!"

"Ssh." Harry smiles. "I want to tell you a story."

"Oh?" Louis obviously wants to keep sulking, but is unable to hide his curiosity. "What sort?"

"Sort of a fairy tale I guess, but sort of real too. Well there're actually a few stories. But they're connected. Is that okay?"

"Are they happy stories? I don't like sad ones."

“They might be sad for a bit, but there's happy parts too."

"Fine then." Louis sighs, like he's doing Harry some huge favour. "Get on with it."

"Okay um, the first story is about a boy named Zayn." Harry says, watching Louis face closely for any hint of recognition. As he'd expected there is none. "Zayn was born in the colony of British India. His mother was the daughter of a merchant, and his father was the interpreter assigned to guide them when they came to trade for silk and spices."

"When Zayn's older sister was born, it was a scandal on both sides. His mother's family was horrified that their daughter had allowed a dirty blasphemer to touch her, and the father's people were no less pleased. But there was nothing they could do for the couple stood by each other, claiming love, and stayed with him against their wishes. So Zayn and his siblings grew up deprived of their maternal side's wealth and ostracized from their father's people, but loved fiercely by their parents. But when Zayn was seven years old, the country was pulled into a war with neighbouring villages and his mother took the children back to England to stay safe. They received news that their father was killed a month later."

"Since her father had disowned her, they couldn't go to their mother's family for help. Zayn's mother had to work fifteen hours a day in the factories, and was barely paid enough to feed them. Zayn and his sisters too, had to work selling newspapers in the streets. But their obvious foreign blood earned them distrust and outright hatred from the people and they rarely made enough pence to cover the cost of the papers. Zayn felt hopeless and alone."

Louis' brows are pinched together, and he looks like he's about to complain, but Harry raises his hand. "The happy parts are coming, I promise." He says. The sky is growing lighter, turning everything soft and warm.

"The next story is about another boy. His name is Niall. He lived in a country called Ireland, in a small fishing village. His family didn't own much, just their tiny cottage and his father' boat, which they took out every morning to catch whatever swam into their net. Niall's brother was much older than him, and was already engaged to be married to a neighbour's daughter. The oldest son of every family inherited his fathers property and fishing rights, so Niall's father sent him to the city in hopes that he could get an education and have a better life. But Niall loved his home and his family so much that being away made him too sick to attend his classes. He felt hopeless and alone."

He checks if Louis is still listening; it's always a precarious thing, Louis' attention span. The boy's eyes are still on Harry's face blank and devoid of emotion. The rising sun fails to cast any shadows across his features, and the ground behind him is bright, like the light is going right through him. It makes him look like he doesn't belong against this backdrop.

"Now I'll tell you about a boy called Liam." No sign of familiarity in Louis. "Liam's family was very well off, his father one of the most successful lawyers in London. But his mother was often ill and couldn't care for a toddler, so Liam was sent to the country to live with his uncle who owned a large farm there. Liam thrived in the country. He was great friends with the servants' children and loved horseback riding and playing cricket with the townsfolk. But when he came of schooling age, his father brought him back to London, to begin his law education. Liam's mind wasn't built for it though, and he did very poorly. His family were like strangers to him after years away, and their disappointment in his academic performance made him feel stupid. He was always hearing about how clever his older sisters were, how brilliant his cousins. All Liam wanted was to go back to the farm where he’d been loved and appreciated. He felt helpless and alone."

"All of these stories are so dreadful!" Louis bursts, "and you're ending them all without any happiness! I don't like this one bit."

"Please be patient, I only have one more story before the happy part." Harry begs. "This last story is about a boy named Harry." He waits. Surely Louis will realize now, where this is going. But the other boy's face remains as stoney as ever.

"Well?" Louis snaps, "hurry it up, I'm getting tired of all this sadness."

Harry nods jerkily, biting the inside of his cheek viciously. "O-okay. So Harry, Harry lived in England with his mum and his father and his sister Gemma. They had a good life, except that their father often liked to drink too much. One day he gambled almost all their money away. They were ruined. Then he got himself killed in a pub brawl, leaving his family with nothing but his debts. Desperate for a miracle, their mum travelled to the city, leaving her children under the care of their boring old neighbours. It only took a month for her to get engaged to some fancy city doctor, and make arrangements to move the family and marry him. Harry and Gemma both loathed the idea of moving away from the only home they'd ever known, resented their mother for moving on so fast, and had no desire to hand their lives over to a man they'd never met. Gemma took to hanging around with a rough crowd, started dressing inappropriately and became angry and distant. Harry...he felt so lost. His beloved sister was turning into a stranger, his mum was miles away, and his father was dead. He felt so hopeless, so alone."

He draws a shaky breath. He doesn't want to look at Louis again because the utter disregard hurts like a physical wound. He forces himself to, bores his gaze into the other boy's in hopes that he can awaken something.

"Where's the happiness?" Louis asks guilelessly. “Come on curly tell me it gets better."

"It gets better." Harry says dutifully. "All of those boys? They manage to find each other somehow. I'm not sure how, but they do. They meet in a special place and become friends. It's a place where war and religion and poverty and expectations don't exist, and the boys can be how boys are supposed to, happy and carefree and loved. An endless summer." The sun is licking at the line of the ocean, the sky deep bloody orange.

"Good." Louis sighs, fingers creeping seemingly unconsciously to play in Harry's hair. Blind to the way Harry is blinking back tears ."That's a good ending."

Harry laughs and closes his eyes, leaning into the hand on his scalp. "Not the end though. The story isn't over."

"But you said it would have a happy ending!" "No. I said it would have happy parts." "Why can't you leave it there? Why can't that be the end?" Louis whines.

"No. I said it would have happy parts."

"Why can't you leave it there? Why can't that be the end?" Louis whines.

"Because it just isn't." Harry fights to keep from raising his voice. "Because forgetting about the real world doesn't mean it doesn't exist. And just because there are some dark points in your life, doesn't mean it's not worth living. Because the only thing worse than growing up is never growing up at all." He turns to the side and presses his face into Louis' neck. "Lou, what's my name?"

It takes a moment for the older boy to stiffen. Harry stays still and relaxed, slitting open his eyes to watch the sun finally break the horizon. "I...that's a stupid question! You're my Curly."

"I am." Harry agrees softly, "but that isn't my name. You've forgotten my name Lou."

"No I-" Louis jerks away and up, floating towards the cliff edge but not leaving, not yet. It's a small mercy. "I wouldn't, I couldn't forget. It's just...slipped my mind."

"My name is Harry." Says Harry. "And I left. I left you and I'm sorry Lou, I'm so sorry. I didn't realize how bad it is, how bad you're getting."

"What are you talking about?" Louis' face twists into a strange, shadowless snarl. "It's not bad, nothing is bad. I'm bloody brilliant, no thanks to you." He spits, "Harry. Harry who left me. Why couldn't you have just let it be the end? It could have been our happy ending."

"I couldn't stay." Harry whispers brokenly, "I remembered all of the good things that I'd left behind that outweighed the scary things. I realized that I'd abandoned my mum and Gemma, and I couldn't live with that."

"So you abandoned me instead!" Louis roars. A sudden wind crashes into the shore, whipping Harry's hair and flattening the grass around him. He braces his palms on the dirt behind him to stay upright. Louis hangs unaffected, a hundred feet above the water and unruffled by the elements. "I was so alone!" He shrieks, "you said you loved me the best, but you still left!"

”I did, I do love you!" Harry insists, eyes watering so badly the world is reduced to blurs. "But I couldn't keep hiding from the world, so I had to leave. Just like I have to leave now-"

"Again?" Louis wails, his voice crashing like storm waves and distant thunder. "You're going to leave again? What about our happy ending? Why won't you stay? Why am I not good enough?"

"You are good!" Harry shakes to his feet, bracing his legs to fight the wind. The previously clear sky is clouding over, purple thunderheads billowing in from every direction, lit bloody with the low crimson sun. "Louis please understand, you are so good! I love you so much that I came back for you! I want you to come with me, please! We can leave together!"

"I can't!" The wind roars, electricity crackling in the distance. Louis flickers with the light; every time the sky flashes white his body blinks transparent, shifting in and out of focus. "There is nothing there. There is nothing but loneliness, no more hope! He left, She left, you left! Everyone leaves me! The real world if nothing but broken dreams and hopeless futures. Why would I go back?"

"Because there is more then that!" Harry pleads, "I'll be there, and we'll find each other. There are friends to make, sights to see, conversations to have! I know it's scary but you have to embrace it!" The wildflowers around them, which had just begun to peek their soft yellow petals into the morning, are straining on their delicate stems, bending and snapping. The buds tear off and tumble away, over the crumbling cliff and into the whirlpools that have formed at the base.

"No no no!" Louis is sobbing, little fists clenched white. "I won't ever go back, you can't make me!" A searing pain shoots across Harry's cheek making, him recoil. He brings his hand up, only for another sharp sting to hit his neck. Hail rockets from the sky, hurtling at Harry and the dirt around him. Never in all of his time here has the weather been like this; it's always been sunny and calm, save for the rare temperate rain shower that would roll in at night, leaving the forest freshly rejuvenated the next morning.

"I know I can't make you do anything Louis, but I can beg you." Harry tries to shield his face from the relentless ice pellets. "Please come with me! Please Louis I can't stand to leave you like this. You're falling to pieces here, you're disappearing! This place is rotting you away and I can't let that happen!"

"I'm fine!" Crackles the lightning, "I belong here! This is the only place I can be!"

"Louis look at yourself!" Harry cries, tears streaming from the corners of his eyes, blown back into his hairline by the wind. "Look around you and look at yourself! This isn't what you are! This place is devouring you! And you forgot me!"

"I- no! I didn't forget you!"Louis' expression is fractured between rage, fear, and devastation. "Just your name, just for a moment! I'd never forget you!"

"But maybe this time you'll forget everything! You'll forget all the adventures we had, the happy times we shared. I can't stand that thought, can you?"

Louis shakes his head back and forth violently, and from somewhere under his feet Harry feels the earth rumble, a great chunk of earth breaking off the bluff and splashing into the sea. "You will." Harry pushes, "you think you won't but you will. You forgot the others, Zayn, Niall, Liam. You said I was special, but you loved them too. Remember? You called Zayn your beautiful boy. You loved his silence, how every word he spoke meant just a bit more for how carefully he'd thought it through. You loved how he was gentle and compassionate, how he'd spend hours watching the minnows swim, would climb a tree to sit with the birds, or walk the beach throwing dying sea-stars back into the water."

"And Niall, you called him Smiley because he was always so cheerful. It felt like everything would be okay as long as Niall still had a grin on his face. He laughed so easily, would burst into a fit for anybody, but never as long or as loud as when he laughed for you. He never failed to make the most of each moment, relished every bite of food, drank up every ray of sun, marvelled at everything."

"Liam was quiet at first, it took him a while to adjust. He was a bit too serious, took longer to shake off the real world. But once he did let go, he became he centre of the group. He was a brilliant planner, made up some of the best games. He lived for your attention, even more than the rest of us I think. Everything he did was aimed to get your praise. You called him Brown Eyes, and you loved him best when he managed to relax and joke around. You helped him lose his self-consciousness, and bloom into his own person."

Harry tips his face to hold Louis' eyes, ignoring the hail that batters him harder with every passing minute. "And the others, Sandy and Josh and Dan and Tom. They were your boys, and you forgot them. You'll forget me too soon enough. If you can live with that, with forgetting every person who crosses your path, then stay. But I can't think of anything lonelier than that. So I'm asking you to please come with me."

"I've been gone so long." Louis moans with the trees, "It's like I've been here forever. There isn't anything for me to return to."

"I'll be there. And I bet the other lads will be too, somewhere. I don't know when or why they left, but I think they're probably proper well off by now. We can find them." Harry raises his hand, palm laid invitingly up at the other boy."Can I tell you the rest of m-of Harry's story?" Louis hesitates visibly, but nods once. The weather seems to have reached it's crescendo, and isn't worsening anymore.

"After Harry got back to his real life, he and his sister had to pack up their belongings and move to their mother's new fiancé's home in the city. But it didn't seem so bad because Harry realized that Gemma was just as frightened as he was, so at least they had each other. Their mother got married on a beautiful spring day, and they saw in her eyes that she actually truly loved the man across from her. And they got to know Robin too, in the following months, and grew to love him as a second father. Robin payed for them both to attend the best schools in the city, and Harry loved his classes, got to learn history and music and sciences. He made new friends, brilliant friends, and it felt like a true home. Everything he worried about had turned out to be completely unfounded."

"You told me," Harry says, forcing himself to speak calmly, comforting. "That I can come and go at any time. That when I needed to be here, I would find my way, and when I needed to go back, all I had to do was let myself remember. I needed this place once, and I think you probably did too. But staying here for this long isn't healthy. Can you do it with me Lou? It's easy, just remember the world, and we can go together."

"No." Louis moans, "I can't I'm scared. It's horrible out there, there's nothing! And what about the lads, I can't leave them."

"They'll find their own way back." Harry says with confidence. If this chaos reaches as far as the burrow, they've likely already scared themselves back; there's nothing like immediate danger to shift one's priorities. "Remembering is much easier than forgetting."

"Easy?" Louis croaks weakly, somehow still audible over the maelstrom. Harry had hoped that calming Louis would temper he storm as well, but it's still going strong.

"Well, relatively. Humans aren't meant to forget their lives. Memories are an important part of who we are. Without them we're lost."

"I feel lost." Groans Louis, "I feel lost all the time. Except when I'm with you. You help me feel anchored. When you left I....I didn't know what to do."

Harry's heart breaks a bit more "I know love. I hated leaving you; I didn't know that it would be this bad. But I came back for you, so that we can go together this time."

"You'll still want me on the other side?" Louis asks, drifting down slowly but surely, hands lifting to reach for Harry's. "Nobody wanted me before."

"Well somebody does now." Harry smiles up at the other boy, their hands almost touching now. "On the count of three?"

Louis' eyes widen with terror but he nods, then clenches them tightly shut as Harry counts aloud. "One," Louis is almost even with the cliff now, "two," their fingertips brush past each other, set to lock palms, "three," Louis flickers out of existence, and the ground crumbles beneath Harry's feet.

It's not like you completely forgot your life back home. It's more that world has been chased into such insignificance that you don't have time to think about it. Instead, your senses are overwhelmed by the technicolour wonderland around you. There is no such thing as grey here. Everything is painted in shades that you've never seen before. Even the night sky isn't black, it's midnight amethyst full of glittering gemlike stars. The shadows of the forest are a pallet of a millions shades of indigo and jade. Even the rocks are marbled with rose, tangerine, and rust. When it rains the sky turns periwinkle, and the ocean froths in ultramarine-lavender-robins egg blues. Your memories of life before you arrived are nothing but grey. It's impossible to fix onto anything concrete from those times, the dull shades ooze away from your mind, too ugly to bother dwelling on. Why would you want to, when your eyes open to this vivid land? Louis manages to be the brightest thing here. No matter how turquoise the sea is, how emerald the leaves, cerulean the sky, or how yellow the sand, Louis outshines everything. He's one lovely bundle of golden hues, his russet hair gleaming under every light, his tanned body gliding through the humid air like a ray of sun.
So how could you even bother wasting a moment of effort thinking about the grey past when Louis' eyes defy natural with every aqua glance? This is a world made of every beautiful thought, every dream of paradise, every musing of perfection. Why would anyone ever try to leave?

He wakes up with chips of ice lodged in his ears, spine, and ribs. With fire burning behind his eyes and all over the surface of his body. He wakes up in a puddle of mud and booze and other rubbish that he'd rather not examine too closely.

After one blurry glimpse of the alleyway around him, he slams his lids back down over his searing eyes. He's not quite ready to face the world yet. He rolls sideways to put his back to the ray of late morning that had peaked the sloped roof above that must have been what woke him.

He wants nothing more than to go back to sleep. He squeezes his eyes tight and tries to chase down the lingering haze of slumber and dreams. But the ground, now that he's aware of it, is hard and cold, and his clothes stick wetly to his skin with foul smelling slop, his bladder feels like it's swollen fit to burst from his abdomen, and his stomach has decided to angrily remind him that it's now been two full days since he's had a proper meal.

He groans long and loud back at his twisting stomach, trying to shut it up because it's unlikely to be fed any time soon. Not after he'd spent his very last pence on the train ticket, uncaring to anything but his desperation to get as far away as possible from that house. He'd been lucky to stumble into a pub whose owner took pity on him and to let him sing by the bar in exchange for enough pints to get him black-out drunk.

It must have been the gloriously potent brew that had inspired such...strange dreams. They weren't nightmares, not really, but they hadn't been wholly pleasant either.

Mostly the dreams are now a haze. Brilliant colours the likes that dreary old England could never offer, even at the height of spring, and emotions so realistic that they feel more like actual memories, albeit distant half-faded ones, rather than figments of his imagination. But actual memories aren't populated with monsters and myths, and he can recall gleaming images of fairies with tiny, perfect features and sparkling wings, shimmering half-fish mermaids that transformed into horrific animated corpses.

And the boy. The boy who'd been everywhere and meant everything. His presence coloured every moment of the dreams, brighter than any of the other spectres. Even during the frames that his image hadn't filled, a sense of longing for him burned so strong that the fantasy world went grey around him. Perhaps the boy was the craziest part of all of it. He'd been too perfect, too lovely to ever exist outside the whirl of his slumbering mind. Someone who loved him that fiercely, that unwaveringly, could never be anything but a hallucination.

Logic doesn't stop the empty ache on his chest. How fucked is it to miss a dream? Is it even possible to feel like you've bonded so closely to a unconscious projection that the thought of never seeing them again fills him with despair? Insane. Folks have been put in asylums for less.

But. He throws an arm over his face and exhales. A face floats behind his closed lids, ivory skin against rose-hued lips dimpled into a smile, wide eyes like jade full of earnest adoration. A tumble of deep chocolate curls that caught and held the scent of the sea. Louis wants to press his nose into those curls, wants to sink his body into the other, wants their arms to tangle until there's not a molecule between them. It's ridiculous that Louis feels tears welling.

Curly. Louis had called him Curly but his name was Harry. And even now that he's awake, Louis feels an overwhelming sense of possessiveness. This boy, and he had undoubtably been just a boy in both forms that he'd appeared in the dream, had carried with him a gravity that had pulled Louis in without escape. Reconciling that attachment with the fact that none of it had been real feels like accepting that a loved one has died.

It's as if his brain had taken this whole mess, this whole disastrous quest, and balled up Louis' insecurities into a character that solved them all. The loneliness, inadequacy, and worthlessness that had defined his existence for as long as he can remember had faded into nonexistence with Harry there to look at him with the unconditional love that Louis has been denied.

Well, back to the real world. The real world where grey smog hangs above, not cloudless blue skies. Where the sounds of the city replace that of bird calls, the smell of smoke from the factories stings his nose instead of a clean, salty breeze. Where there's no lovely boy who loves Louis, how could there be, when not even his own parents want him?

He'd been a fool, in hindsight, to imagine that the mother who had given him up at birth would want anything to do with him now that he's grown. He'd hoped that the fact that he no longer comes attached to his father would have warmed her to the prospect. Disowned for no better reason than that the man himself, worthless arsehole, had impregnated the village midwife's apprentice while his own young bride fought her infertility in the cold rooms of their home. He'd thought things would change. But it seems that Lord Austin's filthy shadow hadn't been the problem after all. That was just Louis.

And he'd been so excited. Full of romanticized ideas of reunion and family, he'd tracked Johannah Tomlinson, née Johannah Poulson, to the Manchester town she now calls home. She'd been sent there eleven years ago, after the lonely seven year-old son of the local lord had taken too keen an interest in her. Lord Austin, in a stunning show of generosity, had graciously sponsored the young woman's admittance to the Manchester University school of medicine where she could follow her dream of becoming a fully educated nurse a hundred miles out of Louis' reach.

Louis is supposed to be the legitimate son of Lord Austin and his wife. In the face of Lady Katherine's barren womb, they'd been unwilling to take the chance that this scandal would be the only heir the Lord would ever produce. Miss Poulson, barely more than a child herself, put up no fight when her parents urged her to spend her pregnancy shut away in the manor, returning to her daily life afterward as if nothing had transpired.

The affair was meant to be a secret, but everybody knew. Lady Austin did not hide her resentment of the child that was supposedly her own, rarely even attempting to fake affection in front of the staff. Lord Austin would have been a distant father in any case, and didn't acknowledge Louis beyond the necessary disciplining. There was also the fact that both Lord and Lady bore the pale-skin and hair of the aristocracy while Louis had grown into unmistakably swarthy skin under a nut brown head. Nobody dared to say the words, not to his face, but everybody knew. And gossip spread from the mouths of the maids who were present during the nine months Johannah was resident, and from the girl's own mentor who'd overseen the birth. Everybody knew.

Louis at seven had just suffered through a lonely year. The miraculous awakening of Lady Katherine's body had born the family a daughter that was truly theirs, and his young world had come tumbling down. Although his father continued to treat him the same, that is, didn't treat him any worse, Lady Katherine had given up any remaining pretence at mothering him. Her time was entirely devoted to precious baby Georgia, and left her husband's bastard to the maids. It was only natural, really, that Louis had begun to seek affection wherever he could. 

Miss Poulson, by then senior apprentice at the midwifery, had always been kind to him. She would always wave to him when he passed by her with his tutor, or slip him a piece of homemade sweet-cake and boysenberry jam when he snuck away to visit her shop. He was too young to guess that she was his biological mother, but not too young to wish that she was. He made the mistake one day, of mentioning her over tea. Lady Katherine had been furious, shrieking for his tutor to come and paddle him. By the next week Miss Poulson's bags were packed and she was bound for the city.

He pieced the truth together during his time away at school, and the world had slowly begun to make sense. Why his childhood had been so devoid of love, why one of the only sources of warmth had been the pretty young woman who'd gazed at him more fondly than she had any right to, and why she'd been sent away.

Eleven years later and the house in Manchester was lovely. It was tall and narrow with window boxes spilling a rainbow of flowers. There were cream-coloured curtains trimmed with lace in the windows, and a laden clothesline strung up in the tiny yard. Louis had stood on the small porch, brimming with nervous anticipation, in his best Sunday clothes (faded and a size too small) with his entire life stowed in the leather case at his feet.

She'd looked exactly like he remembered, even a decade later. She was still young, still in her prime, glossy raven hair tucked up beneath a nurse’s cap, blue eyes soft and kind, if a little weary.

He could see that she recognized him, but he introduced himself anyway. "Good afternoon Miss Poulson, I don't know if you remember me, but I'm-"

"Mrs." She interrupted, and her voice as gentle as he remembered, but careful, words firm and deliberate "It's Mrs Tomlinson now. How can I help you Master Austin?"

"I, uhm." He stammered, looked down at his scuffed up boots, so out of place on this white-washed stoop. "It's just Louis actually. I've gone my own way, see? I'm my own man now."

She'd looked closer then, peered at him through the doorway. It was a stark reversal of the past, her in a pristine white smock, with healthy apples in her cheeks and flesh filling out her body while Louis is the one in near rags, skin dark with dirt and labouring under the sun, cheekbones sunken from missed meals. "Well then come in." She'd sighed, "I've just started tea."

The parlour sat right off the entrance, a cozy little room with a pair of mint-green sofas and a big brown armchair grouped around an oriental-looking rug. Johannah left him perched awkwardly on one while she bustled into the kitchen. He kept as still as possible, feeling like a dark stain in the bright room.

"You've a beautiful home." Louis croaked, once she returned. Setting a tin tray on the low wooden table, she nodded her thanks.

"It's no Viscount's manor, but it's a sight better than a mattress in the herb room of a midwifery." She hummed agreeably. She poured tea from the pretty porcelain pot into two matching cups, handing one to Louis who fumbled, a small bit of brown liquid splashing over the rim into the saucer.

"No it's better than that place." Louis disagreed. "It's cozy. Lived in. I like it." A wedge of cake sat on the tray as well, and a small pot of jam that made the whole room smell sweet and fruity and like childhood. Louis wanted to curl up on the cushions and stay forever.

He hadn't really prepared a way to address the matter. In his head he'd pictured her being the one to bring it up, as he still technically shouldn't know the truth. Nobody had ever said it out loud to him but he'd been anticipating it for years, waited for her to say it now.

The silence hung for a long minute, heavy and loaded. Johannah stared into the steam wafting off her cup, fingers trembling very slightly. Louis was just opening his mouth to break the tension, perhaps pose a leading question that would steer the conversation in the right direction, when footsteps thumped down the flight of stairs, and a girl rounded the parlour doorway.

Louis stared at the child, face frozen into blankness. The girl looked back, blue eyes met blue. "Charlotte." Johannah said, voice strained, "Darling have you finished your grammar already?"

She was sweet looking, objectively, blond and chubby-cheeked in a light yellow dress. Louis saw his own features echoed in the tilt of her nose and mouth and brows. "No." She admitted quietly, "I heard voices, and thought that daddy was home early."

"Not for another few hours love. Go back upstairs to your sisters and I'll call you for tea."

She nodded and turned, disappearing back upstairs. It felt like she'd taken the breath from Louis' lungs with her. An ivory-faced clock ticked on the mantel, ticked, ticked. "What's next then?" Johanna asked, "Now that you are your own man, where are you going after this?"

I'm going to stay here with you of course. His heart pounded, his face numb and breath rushing in his ears. I'm going to stay here and we'll love each other and be a family. "Travel I suppose." He somehow managed a weak smile. "See the world y'know? Got nothin' tying me down now."

"That sounds nice Louis." She said, eyes fixing on him for a long minute before returning to her hands. "That'll be good for you I think."

It was like he'd been wearing blinders when he first entered the house, that had now been torn off. He saw the elegant silver frame that held a wedding portrait, displayed proudly on a buffet under the window, flanked by a larger group photo of an entire family. The couple with four children, one he recognized as the girl from before, Charlotte, holding hands with what must be a younger sister. Seated on their parents laps was a set of identical babies in lace bibs and bonnets. The black and white figures filled up the entire frame, no empty space around the edges.

Louis looked at the cake still untouched on the tray, and his mouth watered. Saliva pooled around his tongue, and his stomach clenched with hunger. It was there, right in front of him, but he didn't quite feel like he had the right to take any. "I should go." He said, "My train leaves soon." A lie, "Just thought I'd pop by and..." He trailed off, uncertain.

"I'm glad you did." Johanna said, and it sounded like she meant it. "I wouldn't want you to be late for your train."

Louis walked to the station with burning cheeks and bitten-raw lips. He was trying to get to London, but his funds only got him to Windsor before his ticket no longer met inspection and he was escorted off. Now here he is twenty-four hours later, penniless and going mad, making up islands full of devoted children to cope with his abandonment issues.

He’s forces himself into a sitting position, fighting down the bile that churns at the back of his throat. Dragging himself to the wall of the building beside him, he manages to stagger upright. Clutching his throbbing head, he halfheartedly brushes himself off. Looking presentable is a hopeless cause, but he shakes off a few pieces of garbage before making his way down the alley to the main road.

He’s just about to step into the sunlight when a figure bowls past him, cutting him off and knocking his elbow with a glancing blow. He’s still dizzy enough that the movement catches him off balance, sending him stumbling back a few paces.

The figure stops in his tracks, a tall man in black tails, far too overdressed for this part of town. His white collar is starched to his ears, large bow-tie neat under his chin. His beady eyes scan Louis’ figure, nose wrinkling in distaste. “Oi you wretch.” The man snaps in a posh, nasally voice. “Watch where you’re going.”

On any other day Louis would have been ready to tear this bloke apart. He’d have a million witty relies ready to go, would get up in this dandy’s face and refuse to be spoken to in such a way. But as he is, disoriented, dispirited, and hungover he just blinks pathetically. The man snorts derisively and shakes his head. “Bloody sewer rats.” he sneers down his weaselly face. Then he turns away cane calls back down the street. “Chop chop, hurry it up lads, we’ve much to do. Daylight is wasting."

“Hold your horses Grimmy old chap we’re coming. It’s just that Styles doesn’t seem keen on coming.”

“What?” The man barks, his voice grating on Louis’ headache something terrible. “That simply will not do. Styles! Get here and look lively! Exams are finished and we’re free at last, nobody is allowed to skive off celebratory rabble-rouseing. You’d be disgracing the good college Eton if you did.”

Multiple footsteps approach, the click of glossy leather shoes on stone as a handful more boys dressed in matching suits draw even with Grimshaw. “I’m sorry.” One says, voice deep and croaky like he’s just rolled out of bed. “It’s just that I’m feeling poorly. I don’t feel that I’d be much of an addition to the celebration.”

Louis’s heart falls from his chest. It must. It feels like his ribs have torn open to spill the contents of his body onto the ground.

“But it would hardly be a party without you darling Styles. Tell him Finchy, Moyles?”

The men all proceed to natter at the youngest member of their party, ruffling his dark curly hair, knocking his black stove-pipe hat askew. His pale cheeks flush under the attention. “I’m just….stop! I slept strangely is all."

But his companions won’t have it, and the lad bites his full, pink lower lip and gives in. His green eyes glued to his feet he allows himself to be shepherded on. The group shuffles away, out of Louis’ sight. He’s mute, paralyzed and frozen in place as they move. Their laughter fades slowly with distance and Louis isn’t doing anything.

“Wait.” he rasps. Not loud enough. “Wait!” he says louder, forcing his stiff knees to bend. One step, two step, he limps out of the alley and onto the street. The group is down the block a ways, and he has to yell in order to be heard. “Curly!” But they don’t slow. He drags in a desperate breath, throat burning. “HARRY!”

He sees the moment his voice reaches the boy. They stop, head twisting in the bracket of Grimshaw’s skinny arm. Green eyes under the brim of a top hat.

The sky is blinding white monotony. The streets are black sludge that clings to everything, smearing and rank. The city is miles and miles of grey. You move among thousands of others, one tiny existence. Then a chirp of birdsong, a bloom of warmth, a flash of light.

“Hello again Curly.”