Chapter Text
“They've promised that dreams can come true - but forgot to mention that nightmares are dreams, too.”
Oscar Wilde
***
Louis presses closer to the brick wall. His clothes are already soaked by the rain falling far too often this time of year, not that he cares, but it wets his papers, drives people off the filthy streets, makes them unfriendly and quick-paced. He hasn't sold many of them today and if he doesn't make double the next day, then he needs to come up with something to scrape together this week's rent. He doesn't know how the others are doing, but he doesn't think that the weather is any different near Waterloo Station.
Louis sneezes and flips up the collar of his shirt, tugs his cap deeper into his face and adopts a casual stance at the corner of the street. It's never very busy near Hyde Park at this time of day and all the rich snobs with their top hats and walking sticks; they're probably at some gentlemen's club drinking Bourbon and Whisky. Sometimes Louis envies them. Most of the time though, he hates their guts.
He should be better off selling papers near Westminster, Louis guesses, and decides to go there tomorrow instead.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, as Dickens put it, and Louis guesses that no description has ever been more accurate. Best for a miniscule group of blessed few – worst for the damned rest of them.
Tsar Alexander II has just been assassinated in St. Petersburg. The old continent is ever changing with uprisings and socialist movements and every day it feels like countries are going to fall and rise again from the ashes. The new world across the Atlantic seems like a solid beacon of light on the forefront of freedom and possibilities. Electricity is in the coming since Thomas Edison has invented the light bulb; not that anyone of the common folk has actually ever seen one.
France has called out the Third Republic and it remains to be seen how long it is going to last this time around, their democracy, a hundred years after the Revolution that lit up a spark in every suppressed soul, is still young and fragile. The German Empire is split in half and controlled by Prussia and the Austrian-Hungarian Crown appears to be the strongest force on the mainland – of course only until one takes a closer look.
Cracks are beginning to show on every surface, no matter how solid.
The British Empire is a smoking, steaming body and England is its corrupted heart. Filthy gutters border every street upon which prostitutes and criminals have become the star-crossed lovers Shakespeare once wrote of, forever condemned to remain in the chains that tie them to their pitiful lives; free and yet unfree to change a single fuck about the shithole that is London. It is a place where dog eats dog.
The year is 1881 and if you’re alone in this world you might as well be dead, because starving dogs have no mercy.
Louis walks through Whitechapel when the sun is nothing but a hint on the horizon, obscured by the fumes rising from the factories on the outskirts of the city. He still has some time on his hands and takes a short detour from the path he usually takes towards the bank of the Thames, appreciating the cold and the strong smell of ink from the freshly printed papers under his arm lessening the vile fumes lingering in the streets from a long and greedy night.
He follows Brady Street past the Jewish cemetery and takes a right on Whitechapel Road, rounds the Royal Hospital to head south. There are a few brothels down New Road and Louis takes care to dodge them. He doubts that they are still heavily frequented at this time of morning, yet there is always a half-conscious drunkard stumbling out of their front doors and Louis doesn’t fancy getting pushed into a wall face first by some stranger who gets turned on by rejection and deems it appropriate to fuck him and then toss a handful of coins in his direction. So Louis keeps his head down, his pace fast and steady and his lips firmly shut although he very much feels like humming something he’d picked up waiting outside St. Paul’s.
He continues on his way, towards the Tower and then past it and along the riverbank, already regretting that he left the remainders of his pay with Zayn, in case he needed something, in case he got hungry. His empty stomach is gnawing on his insides. He’d had a cup of hot water for dinner and breakfast and before he sells a couple of papers, he won’t be able to buy anything. It’s why he’s on his feet so early, because he hadn’t been able to stay another minute in the tiny, cramped room he and his best friend share with three other guys his age; a room that is so cold still, winter refusing to loosen its grasp on the city, that Louis hadn’t closed his eyes all night. They all work from sunrise to nightfall, but there is never anything left to buy wood or coal.
It takes him just under an hour to get to the Houses of Parliament, overshadowed by Westminster Abbey, his fingers and toes already slightly numb. Yawning, shrugging the last fragments sleep off his shoulders, he takes position on the corner of Parliament Square and St. Margaret Street. It will be quiet for another hour or so, Louis assumes. He tugs his cap into place, shifts the papers in his arms, and starts reading the first page.
By the time the first people with neckties and top hats appear on the streets – people with the money to buy and the time to read newspapers – Louis is almost done. He’s always been a fast reader, always been good at it, always liked it and he wishes he could read anything but these bloody papers; but perhaps he shouldn’t be complaining, at least they sell at all.
Louis straightens his stance and jacket and steps forward onto the sidewalk and for the following hours, he rattles down memorised headlines, waves his arms like a lunatic and forces small talk to attract customers when all he wants to do is spit in their faces.
A high-pitched whistle reaches his ears when it’s far past noon. It’s raining again and he is soaked, and Louis is trying his best to shield off his papers, because nobody is going to buy them when they’re soaked. He turns his head and sees Zayn heading his way, with a patterned scarf around his neck that looks like he found it in the trash – and he most likely did. But its colours are still radiant and bright, welcoming drops of scarlet and emerald green that are refreshing to his eyes. Zayn gives his arm a playful knock and Louis is glad for the distraction.
“Going alright today?”
Louis shrugs. “I can’t complain. Westminster is usually fine and it is today. Where are the others?” He hands Zayn one of the papers and watches his friend flick through the pages, looking at the pictures and trying to grasp the content of it before giving up and handing it back.
“Stan said something about Waterloo, I think Aiden went with him. Ed’s up in Paddington. I’ve been around Oxford Street all morning.”
“Was it quiet?”
“Bloody awful,” Zayn says. “I tried Savile Row too, thought there might be some gents with a few spare pounds, but the owners chased me away like some hooker. We’re not hookers. We just sell stuff.”
“We would probably earn more if we’d sell our bodies instead,” Louis comments and earns a laugh.
“I hear there are some queers over in Mayfair,” Zayn drawls. “Some posh puffs with powdered faces. I’m sure they’d like you.”
“Why?”
“You’re smart.”
Louis furrows his brows at him. “I’m not smart,” he replies. “I have common sense. Which is what they are lacking, so I think I must decline.”
Zayn sighs. “Shame. You’d look great in a dress,” and then he rounds the corner with a wink and disappears to whatever crowded street he’s picked for himself. Louis rolls his eyes and tries not to worry about Zayn’s words, about where his friend is going to go and what he’s going to do; he’s always had long fingers and someday he might just reach into the wrong pocket.
And then he thinks about Mayfair, about the implications that linger in the air, heavy and yet vaporous, like cheap perfume exported from Paris and beyond. About the temptation of it all and how easy it could be – but would it be easy? Louis isn’t sure. He already finds himself squirming inwardly if gazes linger on his body for too long, when he can tell, so easily tell, what they’re thinking when they look at him; when he knows what they think of him.
If they see him at all. Most of the time, they look right through him and see nothing and nobody at all, and Louis honestly prefers it this way.
He returns to the cold and dark room he has started to call his home when it’s far past midnight, with a busted lip and a bruised shoulder and the bitter taste of blood on his tongue, because he got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught in a violent brawl between a handful of whoremongers and their lackeys. Limbs strained and sore, he settles on the floor beneath holey, moth-eaten blankets and tries to distract his mind from the fact that he only has a few hours before the entire ordeal will start anew. Zayn giving him a tired smile only lessens so much of the weight Louis feels crushing his bones.
The days stretch on, grey and dull and never changing like the Thames. Louis keeps his position in Westminster because it’s lucrative, at least in comparison to anywhere else in the city at this time of year. He makes a little more on Mondays and Thursday, hardly anything on Wednesdays or the weekend, but he gets by – they do – for now, and that’s all he is really ever asking for.
The first time he sees him is a Tuesday.
It’s almost time for Louis to go, or so he would like to think. He’s sold enough for the day, it’s dry but cold and a cough has been straining his lungs all afternoon. It is nothing unusual; the air is almost as dirty as the streets he walks on, poisoned with factory fumes and smoke. Yet it remains uncomfortable and he fears that it might develop into something more than a simple cold if he doesn’t find shelter from the icy wind that’s starting to blow around the corners.
A few carriages roll over the pebbles, coachmen sitting high up in top hats and swinging whips at their horses, urging them on so that the gentlemen sitting in the cubicles arrive at their clubs in time for supper and entertainment. It becomes a dull, steady noise in the background, married with hurried footsteps and walking sticks colliding with the pavement and Louis tries to keep out of everyone’s way as the Houses of Westminster slowly empty after a long day of politics. Some of the passers-by have cigars tucked between their thin lips, blow smoke into Louis’ face and he flips up his collar to muffle his cough, does not fancy offending any of them, it’s not his intention either.
In between turning and keeping out of the way, he isn’t mindful enough of where he is stepping and suddenly, his back collides with something, or rather someone – and Louis’ blood freezes. He has bumped into Member of Parliament before, a Lord even, and he’d had more trouble at his neck than he likes to admit to anyone. Louis flinches out of the way, ducks his head and curves his spine, keeps his head low, always low, and utters as many apologies as he can think of to ensure that this incident doesn’t have any consequences for him. Yet there is no yelling as answer, no walking stick colliding with his body to forcefully remove him from anyone’s path.
“Anything interesting?”
His head shoots up so quickly that he can feel his neck crack and he has to do a double take, blink, before he can clearly see the young man – young Sir – standing right in front of him, not in the usual distance that all the others keep because, who knows, Louis might have a disease. Skin so pale it’s almost white, contrasting with an elegant dinner jacket and a crimson necktie; almost feminine features, brown curls, untamed. It takes Louis another moment to realise what he means and glances down at the papers in his arms, then up again, and swallows, regaining some calmness.
“That depends on what you would consider interesting, Sir,” he says fluidly, politely, to get his head out of any possible rope forming around his neck. “Another assassination attempt on the newly crowned Tsar has made the front page,” and he holds it up for the gentleman to see.
The Sir, possibly Lord, furrows his brows. “Isn’t there always an attempt?” he says and it sounds like he might be saying it just to himself.
Louis shrugs. “There is more on the Austrian-Hungarian conflict on page three, and apparently the truth about the liberal movement in Eastern Europe.”
A fine eyebrow rises upwards. “The truth?”
“Or so they claim,” Louis replies, rolls the paper and holds it out for taking, trying to stay calm, trying to ignore the flutter in his chest and the sudden tightness in his lungs that is surely only stemming from the cough he’s having, or so he tells himself. “Five pennies and you can find out for yourself, Sir,” he adds, because he is not going to forget that he still has a job to do, even with some unexpected – chit-chat.
Warm fingers press a couple of coins into his palm and when Louis regains control over his numbed senses, the young gentleman is already getting into a curricle and disappearing from his sight.
Later that night, Zayn arrives back at their room with an entire bottle of Irish whisky.
“Where did you get that?” Stan is the first to ask sceptically, scooping up his remaining puddle of watery soup with a piece of dried bread that is too floury to be of any proper taste.
“You know the Opium dens in the East End?” Zayn starts and sits down, unscrewing the cap. “Someone died there today while I was doing my rounds,” and by that he means while he was digging through pockets of people too high to even notice. “He passed out and didn’t wake up again. So I took it.”
“You took a dead man’s whisky?”
Zayn shrugs at them. “Would’ve been a shame to let it go to waste,” and then he takes a respectable swig, flinches, pulls a face, hands it around.
Later, Louis is happy to blame his rather vivid dream about handsome and noble strangers on his slightly intoxicated state.
He sees him the next day, towards late afternoon, leaving the Houses of Parliament with another gentleman by his side, slightly shorter and with neatly combed hair. Yet Louis’ eyes only linger on him for a second before he soaks up his – well, the other’s appearance; a black coat draped over his shoulders, underneath a perfectly tailored suit, a pin-striped waistcoat, a neatly and intricately bound necktie rising to just under his chin. His profile is sharp, his expression serious as he talks to his companion, walking half a step ahead, indicating that despite appearing to be younger, he is half a step higher on the social ladder; not just an average Member of Parliament then, perhaps not a Member at all, simply important enough to frequent the same halls.
Louis is so lost in thought that when suddenly, bright eyes come up to meet his, he snaps his head to the opposite direction so quickly he can feel his spine crack. Caught out, he feels his heart thump desperately against his ribs, so startled that he almost drops the papers tucked under his arm. Only after taking a couple of deep breaths does he dare to look up again, gaze across the street only to find a pair of green eyes still attached to his form as their owner follows his friend or colleague into the carriage.
He realises that there is something wrong when he starts looking for him on Wednesday, stretching his neck to distinguish him in between the crowd of people entering and exiting Parliament. Louis doesn’t see him all day, and he doesn’t see him on Thursday either, and business is going slower again, yet he refuses, without acknowledging the true reason, to leave Westminster and try his luck some place else. Wondering distractedly if it’d do any good to pick up a second job on night-shift, perhaps help out in a factory on the south bank, Louis pokes his tattered shoes against the peeling paint of a lamppost, black with gold rims, the Westminster crest on shoulder height, when out of the blue, his neck starts to prickle like –
As if there were someone watching him. He stills, drops his foot to the ground and turns. It’s already dark, some time past seven, Louis assumes, fighting the creeping chill as he pulls his jacket tighter around his body. Only half of the lampposts are lit and even the tiniest shape draws an obscured shadow in the flickering orange lights. A handful of carriages are standing on the side of the road across Westminster Abbey, horses impatiently pawing their hoofs, their owners’ breaths coming out in white clouds from where they’re perched on the roof. All of them are looking ahead.
Louis shuffles back until his back hits the wall, digs his numb fingers into his pockets and glances around the area once more. A few windows are illuminated, but there are no people on the streets and –
“Evening.”
“Jesus Christ, what –” He jumps and his heart is in his throat once more, threatening to break through skin and ligaments. It’s his – it’s him, looking as impeccable as always and Louis’ mind is racing so much that he only realises after a few moments that he has been leaning right next to a door, now open, which is why the young gentleman could appear out of thin air. Louis swallows thickly and tries to calm his pulse, to no avail.
“Apologies, once again,” he smiles, adjusting the coat he is wearing. The fabric rustles, it looks heavy and expensive. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Excuse me, Sir, my – mind was elsewhere,” and he clears his throat, straightens his collar. “Found the truth, Sir? Or do we have to keep looking?”
“I’m afraid so,” he replies and Louis only registers belatedly that they are standing far too close. “Another assassination?”
He grabs a paper and hands it over for him to unfold. “No assassination, Sir. But a handful of conspiracy theories I found quite entertaining. There is nothing like a socialist rising in the east to unsettle the monarchs.” Louis resists the urge to bite his tongue, because he might very easily be risking his neck with careless talk.
“Marxists?”
Louis shrugs. “Aren’t they all?”
“Perhaps,” the gentleman answers, eyes skimming over the headlines. “Are you familiar with his theories?” And that is an odd question to ask, considering their positions, considering appearances, and Louis will be damned if he is going to be careless.
“Perhaps,” he echoes, keeping his expression as blank as possible, not squirming away when assessing eyes meet his own gaze although he very much wants to. People have been imprisoned for saying the wrong things, for believing in the wrong ideals and Louis is not going to be like his – he is not going to let that happen to him.
Something flickers across the other’s expression, as delicate as the rare, early signs of spring spreading across the city. He wonders if he understands why Louis can’t and won’t tell, but then he quickly discards that thought, realising that although some might try, those privileged few will never be able to grasp even a spectrum of the common folk’s worries and fears. Louis guesses that most of them are born with a sense of caution, whereas others never have to worry for a single second in their entire lifetime. It seems highly unfair, but then again, it would surprise him if anything in life turned out to be fair at all.
“Excuse me, Sir,” he says again, takes a few steps back, hoping that the dim lights hide his reddening cheeks, and he doesn’t even know why he is suddenly flushing, feeling too hot (except that he does), but Louis knows that he has to get away right now, unless he wants to do something headless and stupid. “I have to get going,” and he waves the remaining papers before once again tugging them securely under his arm. “I still need to sell these tonight. Have a pleasant evening, Sir.”
He turns around and stumbles, hurries along the pavement until he finds a dark and narrow mew leading off the main road. Louis cuts the corner, sharply, and promptly presses his back to the wet and icy wall, listens to his heartbeat thundering ahead like a marching band, obscenely loud in the surrounding silence. Closing his eyes, he fills his lungs with cold air, concentrates on the dampness seeping through his clothes and tries not to think about what the hell is happening.
“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Zayn tells him later that night when Louis sinks to the floor, utterly drained and exhausted.
“I think he might be one,” he utters his reply as he drifts off, glad that nobody presses further.
Naturally, in accord with the usual course of Louis’ life, everything goes downhill rather quickly from there, like he is attracting bad luck and negativity. He doesn’t oversleep on Friday, but there is some commotion on the street that tells of trouble and soon, entire pathways in Whitechapel are closed off. Louis does not want to know any of the reasons behind it, so he stays away, takes a rather long detour and thus misses the first wave of arriving parliamentarians when he gets to Westminster. Just before noon, it starts to chuck it down in bucketfuls. He does his best to shield off his papers, but half of them have practically started to disintegrate by late afternoon, making most of his daily income disappear into thin air like the vapours rising steadily from the gutter.
Louis feels cold and miserable, feels the dangerous shortening of his temper that might get him into trouble if he doesn’t pay attention to what he is doing or saying. He fears he might also be getting snappy as the day goes on, and that is never good for his side of business. People whose clothes on their backs are worth more than Louis is going to earn all year start to bicker about the price, about the difference of a single penny that makes no difference to them at all, just because they like to be spiteful, because they like to put him in his place and remind him who is in charge. He has to sell, even for less, because even little money is more than none at all and although he knows that he will regret it by the end of the day, Louis has no choice but to give in. It makes his stomach turn unpleasantly in his belly; it makes him feel ill.
Dawn breaks with radiant scarlet drenching the sky, colour almost too vivid against the black backdrop of the city, factory chimneys rising darkly at the horizon in the distance, when Louis decides to give up for now. He is under no illusion that the following day – or any of the ones following that – is going to be any better, but he has learnt to neither push his luck nor his own patience. It hasn’t stopped raining since morning; the streets are deserted because other people have somewhere they’d rather be than in this wretched weather. Louis wrings out his cap and tugs it back on his head, keeps his eyes on his feet as he rounds the corner at Tothill Street for Storey’s Gate. He has the route already planned out in his head, up north past St. James’s Park and turning east after Trafalgar Square. It’s a long and tedious walk and it gets worse the further it is into the night.
But Louis doesn’t even get past the corner. He collides with something solid that sends him to the ground, his back hitting the cobbled street with so much force that it knocks all air out of his lungs. The papers he’s had bundled under his arm go flying and he can do nothing but wince as they get swallowed up by puddles, drenched and probably disintegrating as the seconds beat on. There goes his chance of earning a few, necessary extra pennies; some coal for heating, a loaf of bread that isn’t stone-hard and dry, and a tight fist clenches around his chest, adding to the pressure that his fall has caused, because it’s just not fair.
Louis sees movement out of the corner of his eyes and feels anger bubbling up inside him, anger and endless frustration, because he is so fucking done being pushed around like some worthless piece of –
A hand is outstretched towards him and a rushed inquiry of “are you all right?” reaches his ears, but Louis ignores the sparked familiarity and bats it away, scrambling to his feet without much grace, without much care because he is nothing but a dirty street rat to whomever he’s run into. His clothes are soaked and he is shivering and cold and so, so tired.
“No, I’m bloody not,” Louis yells, apparently all senses lost, pulling his clothes back into place. There is a tear at the elbow of his jacket and his palms burn and throb from trying to buffer his fall. His vision is still slightly off and he thinks he might have hit his head as well, outlines still blurry and the buildings casting long shadows across the street aren’t aiding. “You think you own the damn streets and can stomp on everyone who gets in your way, you pompous arse, then you got another thing –”
It’s then that things come back into focus in front of Louis’ eyes and he snaps his mouth shut so quickly that his teeth hurt. It’s dark, but he recognises the face, the curls and he realises he’d recognised his deep voice as well. He can’t stop himself from going rigid, and his heart beats so hard it hums in his throat.
“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.” His brows are furrowed and he looks – concerned, perhaps? Louis isn’t sure. “Are you hurt?”
Louis thinks he is, actually. His entire body feels like a bare, raw nerve and there sure will be bruises on his back come morning, a nasty bump on the back of his head. He feels pain, and he feels so heavy and his tongue does too, all of a sudden and he already regrets snapping just seconds earlier, all common sense forgotten.
He is close, is the problem, and Louis can see droplets of rain on his heavy, black overcoat that is most likely worth more than Louis will ever earn in his lifetime. A gloved hand reaches out as if to lay on his shoulder in a comforting gesture, but Louis flinches back on instinct, curses himself inwardly for acting like a spooked animal. Shivering, wet cotton clinging to his icy skin, Louis takes a slow step back.
“I am really, terribly sorry,” the young gentleman repeats and he sounds so sincere Louis feels almost inclined to believe him. “I –” and his gaze quickly flickers to the dirty, deformed papers on the street, “I will compensate for these, I promise. I don’t have anything on me now.” He throws a quick glance over his shoulder. “But my carriage is just around the corner, and I don’t live far away. I’ll pay for these, and we can get you dry clothes? You’ll catch pneumonia in this weather.”
He stumbles over his words slightly, like he is the one who is flustered and nervous while Louis still wonders if somebody is going to come up to him to beat him with a walking stick. But he can’t move, he is absolutely frozen to this wet and dirty spot in the middle of Westminster, facing a member of the upper class who could have him beaten to death without getting into the slightest bit of trouble if he only paid off the right people; and by the look of him, he could probably pay off the entire British Parliament.
“I’m fine,” Louis somehow manages to croak out, mostly reassuring himself. “I don’t need –”
“I insist,” he is immediately interrupted. “Please. It would ease my conscience.”
Louis doesn’t nod, but he doesn’t flinch and perhaps that is enough of a confirmation, because suddenly there is a hand gently pressing against the small of his back, making two layers of clothing stick to his skin and he’s moving without actually commanding his body to do so. He has no idea what he is doing and he feels paradoxically terrified and calm all the same and it is making him dizzy and the gentleman’s profile is sharp even against the dark and smudged backdrop of this rotten city.
Louis drops his eyes to his feet and tries to remember how to breathe.
There is tension in the air and Louis can’t properly place or define it. It is not what he would have imagined; it is not what he is accustomed to when in presence of someone so clearly and significantly higher on the social ladder. The young gentleman offered, forthcoming and friendly, no different from the brief words they had exchanged in the past week, futile in comparison to the situation Louis finds himself in now. He is still wet, soaked to the bone and dripping filthy water onto the no doubt inestimable leather seats and cushions of the curricle. Louis folds his hands in his lap, tightly, kneads his fingers and supresses a thick swallow, glances to the side and finds his eyes fixed upon the gentleman’s profile.
He is pale, Louis thinks. Pale and beautiful, radiating an air of authority unusual for his young age and only explainable with an innate confidence that goes hand in hand with privileged birth and a distinguished upbringing. He has a look of importance, but he is not distant like all the others and perhaps it is just his wishful imagination, but he hadn’t looked upon Louis with pity or even disgust.
He just seems honest; genuinely sorry for ruining Louis’ only way to make a living and willing to compensate. But maybe Louis is blinded and it’s not just wishful imagination but also wishful thinking that the Sir is just going to pay for drenched newspapers and dry his clothes.
Louis feels his throat tighten and perhaps he does know how to define the tension lingering in the cabin between them as the horses’ hoofs clatter against pebbles in a steady rhythm. He can’t tell what time it is, he doesn’t know if it’s dark already, velvet curtains shielding off the windows and when the coach suddenly comes to a halt, his heart leaps up so erratically that Louis fears it will leave his body. He flinches when the door is yanked open and he looks upon an old, wrinkly face, framed by silvery hair and a dark top hat. Milky eyes scan him from head to toe, coming to no conclusion visible to Louis, but the old man does step aside and Louis’ legs almost give way as he ungracefully scrambles out of the curricle.
He straightens his cold and ever-trembling frame and looks around, the dark concealing most but a row of trees and a square lined with stately homes, painted white, with high windows and many tiers. The street he is standing on is free of dirt and people and anything that would obscure this perfect picture and Louis takes a few moments to realise that this is somewhere in Knightsbridge, which is –
He turns around in time to see the young gentleman climb out of his carriage with much more grace, and the old man leans in and whispers to him, undoubtedly his concern on bringing a street rat like Louis with him and Lord knows how this appears to on-lookers. The gentleman answers quietly, voice not above a hushed murmur so that Louis can’t pick out a single syllable and he – he is utterly overwhelmed and shivering to his core at this moment and suddenly, this all seems like a bad idea and all his senses are screaming at him to run as fast as his legs will allow.
But Louis stays without really knowing why, completely enchanted by the quiet and peaceful atmosphere laying over the square like a comforting blanket. The old man hurries past him and then he feels a warm hand pressing firmly against the small of his back, gently urging him along, making heat concentrate where fingers are resting right along his spine.
“Come on,” he says in a calm tone, barely audible and rather slowly. “It’s just over there,” and he nods towards one of the houses with marble stairs leading to a heavy mahogany door with golden letters; it’s number seventeen.
They move past the black iron fence and up the stairs and the door opens just as Louis is thinking of reaching out to knock, which sounds silly now that he really considers it. He doesn’t want to gape at the inside of the hallway, but Louis cannot help it. There are one, two, three maids lining up beside the door and dark, ornamented wallpaper crawling up to the white ceiling where chandeliers out of silver and crystal are dangling and shining down with – light. Not candles, but electric light, caught in small glass bulbs and Louis feels unable to move forward for a few seconds, staring at an invention he has only ever read of and never dared to dream of looking upon it with his own eyes. It makes perfect sense for electricity to be in found in the expensive mansions of Knightsbridge, but Louis never thought that he would find himself in one of them.
The hand is still warm and steady against his back and Louis averts his eyes slowly, expecting the other – five people present to stare at him like the scum that he most likely is to them, but the three maids and two butlers, one of them the old man from outside, keep their gazes lowered, not wanting to – intrude, perhaps, but on what? He finds his mind running away from him and is unable to follow, feeling disjointed and disconnected, as he is lead along the corridor and into what appears to be a sitting room, four times the size of the room Louis shares with five other people. Head obscurely empty, all senses concentrated on that single contact between them, he hears footsteps and assumes that the maids have followed them on their heels.
“Wait here,” and then a delicate hand wraps around his shoulder and leads him next door and there are bright blue tiles, shining and interspersed with silver and it’s warm, and steaming and there is a bronze tub and-
Louis snaps his mouth shut. He doesn’t think he has ever felt so much out of place in his life. He spins around again, blinking, but there is only a maid in a grey dress, white apron, with copper hair and a gentle smile and he wonders absentmindedly if he hit his head on stone and is dreaming this, is in fact still lying on a dirty street in Westminster, out like a light and speckled with mud.
“There are new clothes on the chair, Sir,” she says, accent heavy, words clipped. “Just put yours there after you’ve bathed and I will get them cleaned and dried.”
Louis wants to protest, wants to tell her that he is no Sir, that he just wants to leave at this point because this is nice, and it’s not anything he wants to like and expect; grow used to comforts that are out of his reach. But she is out of the room, door firmly shut, before he can muster up the courage to utter a single word. So Louis looks at the filled tub with a tight knot coming to crawl up his throat, because this is what his mother used to do; nowhere near as lavish but so comforting and now he can’t even remember the last time he had a proper bath, not a bucket of cold water, just clean enough.
He draws his sleeves over his wrists and tugs at them nervously, eyes hurrying around again. There is no chandelier on the ceiling, but some candle holders mounted to the walls, candles burning and flickering, throwing long shadows over the tiled floor and lulling him in. He steps forward and lets the tips of his fingers dip into the water, not just lukewarm, but hot and perfect considering that Louis has been feeling constantly cold and clammy for months with summer still far away and the sun barely peeking past heavy, grey clouds as of late. And Louis wants nothing more than to shed his clothes and let his entire body sink into the tub; a luxury that he will most likely not get the chance of experiencing again.
But this is a stranger’s house and Louis feels uncomfortable and nervous for reasons only partially known to him and so he just grabs one of the cloths neatly folded, quickly pulls of his jacket and shirt, and wipes the dirt off his face and neck, arms and chest, wrings out his things and puts them back on, although a brief touch to the clothes laid out for him tells him they’d be far more comfortable than the scratchy, wet fabric he has stuck to his body. But they’re his and without them, he’d surely feel even more exposed than he does already.
Louis takes a few more breaths before he runs a hand through his damp hair, turns on his heels and stalks back to the door leading into presumably only one of many sitting rooms that are undoubtedly located in this mansion. The old butler is there again, minus top hat, but still impeccably dressed, expression firm and serious, wearing white gloves that make him look like a coroner. He bows his head slightly and it is painfully bizarre for Louis to be on the receiving end of this gesture, instead of curling his own spine. The gloved hand points towards the corridor and then the old man steps out into it, Louis only being able to follow after a moment’s hesitation. Rounding a corner, Louis’ at the bottom of a grand staircase leading up to the first floor, portraits adorning the walls and he passes ancestor after ancestor on his way up, cold and judgmental eyes despite only being painted on canvas.
He loses track of the number of stairs he leaves behind or the corners he turns and Louis’ mind is entirely elsewhere when all of a sudden, he’s in a room, and the door shuts behind him, and the young gentleman is sitting at a sturdy desk, face illuminated by a single candle. He has shrugged off his coat and jacket, but the well-tailored shirt is still entirely buttoned up, necktie still in place, spotlessly white, and Louis is frozen to the spot when he looks up and their gazes lock.
Something happens; something Louis can’t name or understand and he won’t be able to for a while (but that is a lie, he realises it right then and there, but Louis is good at denying things, at claiming that things aren’t real). It’s a stutter in his chest that shortens his breath and a faint tickle in his fingertips; spreading heat so rapidly that Louis fears he might be blushing.
“You didn’t take the clothes.”
Louis swallows, shifting from one foot to the other, not liking how small he feels still. “It’s very kind of you, Sir – Milord? But I –”
“Just Harry,” Louis is interrupted almost instantly and the other rises to his feet. “There is no need for formalities. And, if I may, I would also like to address you with your first name.”
Harry, he repeats in his mind, more than once and perhaps he deems formalities unnecessary, but they also mean distance and right now, Louis thinks some distance would be of use, would be helpful, because there is something spiralling out of control already and Louis fears that if he had a choice, he wouldn’t want it to stop spinning.
“It – it’s Louis. Just Louis.”
“Well,” Harry –Harry – says. “I am pleased to finally make your proper acquaintance, Louis. It was strange talking to you and not knowing your name.”
“It’s not really worth knowing,” Louis says before he can stop himself, bites his tongue when he realises that the words have indeed slipped past his lips and finds Harry looking at him with slightly squinted eyes and a soft tilt to his head. “It was all,” he adds quickly, “very kind of you and I do apologise for declining, but I – I think I should go.”
“Please don’t apologise, it was entirely –”
“My fault,” Louis interrupts him and if this were anyone else, they would probably have his head for being so utterly rude and disrespectful; and perhaps he will have his head, it’s most likely too early to tell. “Entirely my fault, and I do apologise for causing trouble, but none of this is necessary and I – I wouldn’t know how to repay your kindness.”
“You caused no trouble at all. I am not asking for anything either, why would you think that?” Harry’s voice is kind, far too kind and as he takes a few steps towards him on the Persian carpet, Louis wants to move closer and farther away.
He swallows. “Others have.”
The stretching silence that follows is telling of the understanding on Harry’s side and Louis keeps his eyes firmly cast downwards, slightly embarrassed about admitting something that is common knowledge on the streets, that happens every day, that is as much a solid part of his life as sunrise and sunset. It still makes him uncomfortable to even insinuate it, it still makes his skin crawl unpleasantly and he needs to steady his breath.
“I had no such thing in mind,” Harry tells him and his voice is nearer than Louis would have expected, making his gaze shoot up despite his mind telling him to keep his head lowered.
His eyes are so bright even in this darkened room – bright and open and honest. Louis thinks he still wants to run; but he doesn’t think he wants to run away anymore. And there is that tension again, the tension he’d felt earlier, so tangible that he could surely reach out and grab it much like he could reach out and smooth his fingers over that necktie, tug at the ends and make it come loose. He can’t tell where these thoughts are coming from all of a sudden, but they don’t go away, they stay and they start gnawing at his insides, right behind his forehead.
“I wouldn’t,” Harry continues and Louis can’t help but get drawn in by the movement of his lips, thin but shaped and viciously captivating. “I only intended to offer you compensation for tonight’s unfortunate accident. Although I –” A quiet but fast intake of air, almost hectic, and the tip of a tongue darting out, licking briefly and unconsciously at dried lips. “I must confess; I have found you stubbornly occupying my mind as of late.”
His throat runs dry, his fingers twitch; he holds his breath. It would be a lie if Louis claimed that he has not been thinking about the not-so-much stranger, almost every minute of every cold and dark hour that makes up his days; a bright thread he could hold onto in his mind. But this is surreal and painfully real at the same time and Louis has no idea what he is supposed to do, what he is allowed to do.
“And you’ve been on mine,” he says because there is no reason for him to hold it back.
Another moment of silence, not tense this time, but oddly cleared and relieved.
“Have I?”
Harry is so close that Louis can feel his breath on his face. He wonders if he could lean closer, if he could touch, if he could find out whether Harry tastes as sweet as he smells. But as much as his mind is already clouded by what cannot be described by anything but desire, it is also fear that shrouds it all; fear of the so evident and imminent danger this situation holds, however tempting it may be, because Louis is no fool. He would not have kept himself alive if he were a fool, if he did not know of the dangers of allowing and giving in to simple pleasure.
His gaze flickers between Harry’s eyes and his lips, urging him to make a decision Louis cannot; will not – perhaps because his mind is already made up.
A thumb traces the outline of his jaw, softly, trailing, a barely-there touch that sends a wave of heat up Louis’ spine nonetheless. He suppresses a shudder, a sudden intake of breath, a treacherous hitch in his throat, trying to keep his pulse even but to no avail. His heart is beating solidly against his ribs like a steam train’s engine, voice barely above a whisper.
“I should… I should go.”
The touch brushes past his pulse and lingers at his neck, just below his hairline, pressing down softly. “You’re free to go. If that is what you want. But I’d… welcome it, if you decided to stay.”
The fingers behind his ear are gentle and warm, yet no comparison to the eyes that look upon him and lock with his own; the hint of a smile, as faint as the sun trying to break through dense clouds.
Louis nods, almost imperceptibly, but Harry catches it with a brightening to his gaze, air coming out short. His fingers ghost over Louis’ skin.
“Could I,” Harry breathes and stops, unspoken question lingering between them.
Lips meet his hard enough to bruise. Yearning and desperate, teeth graze and pull and clash before they can reign in the suddenly arisen urgency and move together, mouths hot and open. Louis feels his knees growing weak, his skin growing too tight and only now does he truly realise that he has been fantasising about this – this kiss – ever since he first saw Harry. And he had just assumed that it would always remain nothing more than a mere fantasy – something pleasant to think about when all he felt was cold and anxious.
But Harry is so utterly real against him that it almost hurts, every single nerve in his body standing on edge and he desperately tries to hold on to something, tangles his fingers in Harry’s shirt and lets himself be pushed until the small of his back hits something solid with a thump. He gasps instinctively upon contact and Harry moves away ever so slightly, lips still parted, cheeks flushed, most likely a perfect mirror image of Louis and he wants nothing more than to pull him back in. Everything feels tight; his entire body is crawling with want.
Yet he takes a trembling breath and, as he holds Harry’s gaze, lifts his surprisingly steady hands to reach for his necktie. The fabric is soft, almost slippery, and probably Italian since everything is Italian these days. With more calmness than he would have accredited himself with, considering the previous minutes of this encounter, he starts to untie it and watches as folds of expensive cloth come loose around Harry’s neck. It drops to the floor without a sound, revealing a high collar and more buttons and Louis does not possess as much patience. He fumbles with the first button and then the second, but before he can reach the third, pale fingers encircle his wrists and Harry leans forward, catches his lips in a second lingering kiss that makes his bones melt.
Soon there are fingers tearing at his own buttons, soon his shirt is dangling open and he has half a mind to be self-conscious about how bony his chest has gotten over the cold months, about the many scratches and scars and bruises tainting his skin, but Harry runs a hand across his sternum, along his collarbone and Louis forgets all about it until he has laid the other’s skin bare and sees its perfection right in front of him when they part to catch a breath. Smooth and flawless like marble, solid but warm and soft to the touch when Louis places a trembling hand on Harry’s chest. A delicate shiver curses over the skin beneath his fingertips and a sharp intake of air, pulled in right between teeth pressed together tightly, resembling a hiss makes Louis awake from a trance he hasn’t been aware of falling into.
Palm still placed right above a fast beating heart, he watches as Harry moves his shoulders, as long and sinewy muscles honed by deliberate exercise and not physical labour work underneath his skin. A rustling sound reaches Louis’ ears as luxurious fabric hits the carpeted floor to his feet, but two fingers coming to rest beneath his chin prevent him from glancing downward.
Louis can’t meet his eyes, so he closes his own and waits – for what? He is uncertain; for Harry to stop, to continue, both would leave him with an aching chest, so what does it matter. He craves it and yet he already resents himself for wanting. But Louis does, he does want and he does not want to reach the point where he won’t be able to stop.
“Look at me,” and so Louis does, because a single touch seems to undo his every will and this is not how it’s ever been, not how it’s supposed to be, it is not – and Louis is almost gasping for air. “Christ.”
His lips are already bruised, but Louis welcomes another kiss, welcomes it with far too much ease and he thinks it scares him, going by the fluttering feeling in his chest, but he doesn’t twist his head away, opens his mouth willingly and arches into Harry’s hands sliding up his bare back underneath his still damp and filthy shirt. There is a quiet voice in the back of his mind and as movements grow more erratic and urgent, so does the strength of that voice until it’s almost ringing in Louis’ ears, yelling at him to move, to regain control of his sanity and legs and get away as long as he can.
Harry pulls back, presumably to breathe, and his lips are as red as the camellias outside St. Paul’s in the summer and he looks ethereal standing the flickering candlelight. Louis wants, he wants so much, but the underlying panic that’s been grappling at him all evening finally manages to fight its way to the surface and it’s as if something inside of him snaps.
He flinches back although he can’t convince his eyes to drop their focus from Harry, and he stumbles against a small desk, sends a pile of books tumbling to the carpeted ground. Harry’s brows pull together. He takes a step forward.
“I need to go,” Louis blurts out before he loses the strength to do so. “I’m so sorry,” he says in spite of not knowing what it is he is actually apologising for, “so, so sorry, but –” His hands fly up to pull at his shirt, still hanging open and he fiddles with the buttons, manages to jam a few into the holes with clammy, trembling fingers.
“Louis,” Harry starts, but as soon as his name has left Harry’s lips, Louis spins around on his heels.
He wrenches the door open and it slams against the wall, rattling the picture frames that line the corridor, but Louis doesn’t pause. His feet thunder down the stairs and he almost slips on the carpet with his wet, soggy shoes but he darts for the door like death is after him. Cold air slaps his face and it pulls him back to the ground, but Louis still keeps moving, like he suddenly can’t get away fast enough and perhaps is this lavish square with clean pavements and iron gates, perhaps it’s the giant mansion with the chandeliers and Persian rugs and servants or even Harry with his uninhibited kindness and captivating eyes and sinful –
Louis’ lungs burn when he comes to a halt. He has no idea where he’s ended up but it’s only a fraction of a second before he doubles over and spits bile onto the cobbled street. It burns in his throat and for once Louis is grateful that his stomach is empty. He puts his hands on his knees as he retches, heart beating frantically against his ribs, trying to get out like his body is suddenly too small for it, like it suddenly needs air to breathe.
A violent shiver curses through his body and Louis slowly straightens his spine to curl his hands around his arm, only then noticing that he’s left his coat behind, that he now has to face the on-going rain and cold air in nothing but his tattered and damp cotton shirt. In contrast to the icy feel of his skin, Louis’ lips are still hot when he touches fingertips to them, sore and swollen, Harry’s ghost still lingering as if he were present right in from of him. His knees start to buckle and he has to lean heavily against a rough stone wall, knocks his head against it a handful of times.
“What’s gotten into you?” he asks himself, voice drowned out by the drops hitting the pavement in rapid staccato. “What were you bloody thinking?” And Louis can’t answer either.
He shouldn’t have been so heedless to even get into a carriage with someone like Harry, regardless of his intentions. Louis should have run, had the chance to do so numerous times and he failed to take it and now he is standing somewhere near Hyde Park, he guesses, as the sky empties itself over his shivering, pitiful self, without any clue about how to get home, how to get through the week without the job he’s likely to lose, and how to forget that boy, that man, and how much Louis still wants to kiss him.
Louis sags against the wall, taking a trembling breath and places his hand over his mouth to muffle the pathetic sob that’s about to crawl up his throat. He sinks to the ground, hugs his knees to his chest and allows the rain to soak him through to the bones until he can pretend to be washed away into the gutter.
Louis spends the entire night wandering the eerily deserted streets. It doesn’t take him long to get his bearings once he reaches Green Park, but for some reason, he can’t bear the thought of facing the others in their cramped, muggy room. So Louis keeps walking, the image of Harry with his silk shirt by his feet in the dim light of his study stuck in his mind like it was painted onto it. From time to time, the back of his neck prickles, but whenever he turns around, he is alone.
The sun is just beginning to poke through the thick blanket of clouds covering the sky when Louis finds Zayn lurking around Charing Cross Station. He hadn’t expected it, but Louis feels a strong wave of relief when he spots the familiar face ducked away in a corner.
“Where the fuck have you been?” Zayn exclaims when he spots Louis walking towards him. He pulls him in by the shoulders and hugs him close and the tension that he was unable to shake off all night seeps out of his pores in an instant. “Was waiting up all night.”
“Sorry.” He drops his forehead against Zayn’s bony shoulder. “I felt like taking a walk.”
“All night?” Zayn puts a couple of inches between them, eyeing him intently, hands still firmly holding on to Louis. “In the bloody rain? Where’s your coat?”
“Lost it,” Louis says with a shrug. His mind is circling around the carriage ride to Belgravia, to the big house and the bronze tub and Harry tilting up his chin. It feels like a fever dream in daylight and Louis is almost glad that his coat his gone, seemingly the only evidence that it hasn’t been a figment of his own imagination.
“How? What the hell happened?”
He could lie, Louis guesses. But he’d rather not keep a secret from Zayn, seeing as he’s the only person Louis’ really got in this godforsaken city. It’s just that he’s so bloody tired. “I’d rather not talk about it,” he admits, once more sagging against his friend’s form in search of body heat. It’s really cold and his head is spinning. “At least not yet.”
“Course, Lou,” Zayn gives in easily, draping an arm around Louis’ shoulder and tugging him close. He smells like tobacco smoke and something Louis has come to associate as Opium. He wonders if Zayn’s made another trip to the underground dens in the East End. “But I’m going to take you home, all right? You don’t look so good.”
Louis wants to tell him that he doesn’t feel that good either, but his jaw is heavy and his tongue feels fuzzy and he doesn’t know how he and Zayn make it back to their room halfway across town in one piece, yet they do and Zayn pushes him down onto one of the makeshift beds and dumps all of their blankets on top of him.
He sleeps all day, slipping in and out of consciousness and thankfully without dreams and when he wakes up properly, Zayn is still sitting next to him, holding a bowl of sticky, flavourless porridge. Louis is starving, so he gulps it down until his stomach aches from the unfamiliar stretch and Zayn joins him beneath their pile of blankets once he settles back down.
Louis doesn’t keep the job selling papers (he’s lost some and he’s missed an entire day and his boss isn’t a man who can afford pity) and he doesn’t return to Westminster or Knightsbridge. Fortunately for them, Zayn “finds” a couple of pounds that they use to pay their rent and buy some food and Stan manages to get his hands on a new coat for Louis that’s even slightly warmer than the old one. After a week or so, Ed tells him that the cousin of a friend of his uncle twice removed (or something similar) is looking for help. He runs a chemist’s shop down Edgware Road and needs someone label and re-stock and carry boxes and Louis is the only one who can read and doesn’t need to be paid much.
Louis figures he’s really lucky with this one. The backroom of the little shop is dark and dusty, but it’s inside and it’s warm and Ben and his wife are nice and don’t treat him like the piece of garbage he is in everyone else’s eyes. What’s less fortunate is the time he suddenly has for his own thoughts once he’s shut away at the back with the only sound coming from creaking floorboards and hushed voices from the front of the chemist. He may not have to sell newspapers to unfriendly politicians anymore and he may not return to the Houses of Parliament altogether in the foreseeable future.
But that doesn’t mean he stops thinking about Harry.
***
to be continued.