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Chapter Text

June, 1864

In a house full of endless wonders, there is one part of it that Louis cares for above all else. Boasting rows and rows of towering cases of books and tucked far away from the rest of the world, the Rosewood Hall library is his true home.

It’s where he hides. From his brother and his achingly lovely but gossip-hungry wife, from the various other reminders of all of his shortcomings. He’s not always hiding when he comes here. Sometimes, like today, it’s simply where he ended up when the day took a turn for the boring. 

The midday sun streams through the large windows and hits in just the right spot for Louis to read without straining his eyes to make out the words. Outside the sanctuary of his favourite room, the house has been unusually quiet for the past few hours. 

Liam, usually muttering about something or other or stomping around in a grump, has been out since before dawn. The servants, usually the source of the low-level of bustling noise throughout the manor, have taken the morning off at Louis’ behest. 

The uncommon peace has given Louis a chance to read without distraction, allowing him to delve into Pride and Prejudice for perhaps the hundredth time or more and lose himself within someone else’s life. A considerably less boring one.

Until, barely even a third of the way through the book, the foreboding sound of boots stomping down the long hallway and stopping outside of the great double doors pulls him out of the pages. 

Great, he thinks, closing the book and carefully placing it on the small stool beside his seat. His brother is home. 

The thought has barely a second to speak itself in his mind before the doors swing open, the tall, well-dressed form of his brother appearing from behind them. Louis sighs, sensing trouble as he often does when Liam seeks him out like this so soon after arriving home. Normally he’d take tea first. Or greet his wife, Georgiana, who’s somewhere on the upper floor waiting for his return. 

“Lord Collins has asked me for your hand in marriage,” Liam calls out as he swans into the library, shattering Louis’ peace and looking as amused as Louis is horrified by the words.

Louis, bolting upright from his place on the chaise longue, pins a frightening glare upon his older brother. “For the sake of your nether regions I would hope you told him exactly where to stick his proposal,” he bites out, heart thundering.

Lord Collins is a greasy, self-important arse with hardly a kind word to say, who spends all of his late father’s money on whores. Hardly marriage material, even if Louis is desperate.

And he is. Luckily, the reason for his desperation is the exact reason he knows this proposal must have been refused. It’s not the first, and certainly not the best.

“Of course I did,” Liam scoffs, leaning up against a bookshelf. “The fool threatened to duel me when I said no, and I’ve seen him miss a pigeon with a clipped wing that was sitting as close to him as you are to me now,” he says, gesturing to the six feet or so between them. “I’d hardly sack you off with someone like him.”

Louis huffs, half in relief and half in annoyance. “Someone like him will be all I’ll have left soon, given that you have also refused all the attractive, lovely, titled men who have asked. Will you have me be ruined, Liam? I’ll soon be old and withering away if you keep at it.”

The older man laughs as if he’s heard this rant a million times before. Which he has, but that doesn’t mean Louis is less inclined to let it out. “You’re twenty-two, dear brother,” Liam replies fondly. “I was not married at your age, either.”

Louis levels him with a look, one that says that it’s just not the same. They may both be men, but Louis has always known that his place in society is determined by his softness, his interest in men and the rare condition he was born with that allows him to carry children, putting him firmly in the same place as a woman. Meaning that he has the burden of a giant, ticking clock hanging over his head, threatening him with the reminder of his inevitable rotting in the eyes of society. 

His first season had been cut short and lost to grief when at eighteen his father, William, the Earl of Harewood, had died, leaving a then twenty-two year old Liam with his title and a brother to care for. 

The seasons following the loss had flown by without Louis’ attendance, always some excuse to keep him from going to London. Every year, Louis would ask. Beg. Every year, Liam would shake his head and go about his day. Louis dreads to think of the state of their mansion in the capital, with only Liam’s occasional presence and a few servants to keep it company. Such a waste of a home, when there are people who don’t have even a slither of the luxuries they do. 

This year the ‘no’ had been quick and firm, leaving Louis with little hope left of ever finding a match.

Proposals come every year, when the eligible bachelors find themselves rejected or find the offerings of the season unappealing and they remember the younger Tomlinson who was always so excitable and pretty. It helps that he does attend some events, the odd party here and there; a play, when Liam can be convinced. It’s not hard for him to catch an eye when he does step out, the hard part comes when Liam follows that gaze and swiftly frightens them off. 

Louis doesn’t blame Liam entirely for the tight grip he keeps on him. A part of him can understand, though the part shrinks each passing year.

The anger festers within him now. Liam’s well-meaning yet careless and privileged comment combines with the knowledge that right now two hundred miles away, young lords and ladies are actually living their lives. It causes Louis’ weak hold on his temper to tip and spill over, just for a moment. For just long enough.

“I will never be married,” Louis bites back, tired. “Not if you keep doing whatever it is you are trying to do. Now, I’m tired and you have ruined my reading time, kindly go and bother your wife or your horse or anyone but me.” The words come with a dismissive hand wave as he gracefully pulls himself off the chaise longue and walks out of the room, leaving Liam’s gaping face in his wake.

Barefoot against the thin carpet of the hallway, Louis’ stomping makes far less of a dramatic impact than his brother’s.

If there’s one thing that Louis, Liam and their father always had in common, it’s sheer and unbreakable stubbornness. 

So, naturally, Louis regrets his little outburst almost as soon as he steps over the library threshold. Also, naturally, he doesn’t speak to Liam for the rest of the day. Apologising is not something either of them do, no matter the argument, and he’s not about to change that now.

Instead, he finds himself wallowing in his rooms. Okay, if you asked Louis, he wouldn’t admit to wallowing, but that’s surely what he’s doing. Yearning might also be a word that could be used, yearning for parties and courting and wine-rosy cheeks. Yearning for some fucking fun, for once. Fun that doesn’t involve besting Georgiana at chess or sneaking into the kitchens to bother the cooks.

Real fun. The kind that means something and nothing at all.

Georgiana finds him in that state of pining, popping her head round the door with a look of mischief. 

“Are you quite done?” she asks, grinning, as she allows herself fully into the room. She looks stunning, as ever, though her plain attire is more fitting of one of the maids than of the Countess she is. Her long, auburn locks are loose and wild, and Louis is struck with musings of how Liam copes with both a wife and a brother who are so intent on defying both him and society alike.

“I don’t know what you mean, my lady,” Louis replies, not moving to greet her as he would if there were any other soul in the room. “I’m simply minding my own business, enjoying the peace.”

She hums, throwing herself into the armchair opposite Louis with very little grace. The empty fireplace lays in front of them, unneeded in the warmth of the summer. “I mean, little one, are you quite done moping about being angry at my lovely husband? He finished his moping at least an hour ago.”

Louis rolls his eyes at the nickname, as he has every time she’s used it for the past four years. She’s tall, the slightest bit taller than even Liam, without a heel, and she seems to take great pride in reminding everyone of the fact. Louis had been named little one the moment she set eyes on him, all at once overly familiar where he expected a cold, snobby heiress. 

Louis has loved her ever since. That doesn’t mean he takes kindly to her insinuations. 

“I am not moping!” He gasps, rather dramatically. “And whatever my lovely brother has said to you is all lies, of that I am certain,” he adds, watching her take his half-drunk tea and sip it with a small smirk on the edge of her lips.

“Oh I’m certain you are, but I’m not here to judge,” she grins, a teasing lilt to her voice. “I actually come with news, the kind that may make you more inclined to speak to Liam again.”

Louis sits up just the slightest bit at that, eyeing her carefully. “News?”

The glint in her eye is both worrying and deeply intriguing. “We’re to have guests,” she says, watching him closely.

“Guests? Who? Oh please, don’t tell me he’s invited the Chapmans again, I can’t handle another moment around their daughters,” Louis groans, remembering the horrid month he spent last summer hiding from the much younger blonde twin girls after failing to convince them that he has no interest in courting either of them. 

He’s not sure he could go through that again. 

Saving him from his inner turmoil, Georgiana laughs. “Dear god no, I firmly banned them from the house the moment they left. No, Liam has invited a few of his friends to stay for a weekend, to play games or hunt or whatever it is boring men do,” she explains cheerily. “The handsome Malik boy, a few of his Oxford fellows I always forget the names of, and Lord Styles.”

Louis sits up fully then, eyeing his sister-in-law carefully. “Harry’s coming?” he asks, trying to keep his tone even but evidently failing when Georgiana’s grin becomes almost horrifying.

“Yes, I thought that would interest you,” she teases. “He left London early, again. I heard from his sister that his father is quite displeased with him for failing to find a wife once again. Rumours from the capital suggest that he hasn’t even so much as danced with anyone this year.”

Louis rolls his eyes. He can’t quite help the blush that accompanies it, nor the traitorous skip in his chest. “You’re a terrible gossip, you know that?” 

“Mm,” she agrees, still watching him with far too much smugness.

Harry, Lord Styles, is perhaps the most wanted man in the country. The son of the Duke of Devonshire, Liam’s lifelong best friend and a terrible, terrible thorn in Louis’ side. He’s handsome and unfailingly charming and everything Louis could want in a potential suitor but he’s long resigned himself to admiring from afar. Harry has never seen him as anything but Liam’s younger brother, a sort-of friend and sort-of annoyance, he’s sure.

It’s been years since he last visited. The last time he did, the winter after their father’s death, Louis had made a fool of himself crying in front of the older man. His first chance at being seen as an adult in Harry’s eyes and he was instead faced with a red-faced, awkward, grieving eighteen year old.

Harry’s invitations to his own home had not extended to Louis, after that. 

And now he’s coming to Rosewood Hall.

And Louis is somehow both utterly terrified and painfully excited. 

“When are they coming?” he asks then, taking a deep breath to try and calm himself. The room is very, very warm all of a sudden and he knows it won’t be anything to do with the blistering sun outside.

“Next week.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, not worrying about running his mouth in present company. 

“Fuck indeed, little one,” Georgiana laughs. “Just you, me, your brother and a bunch of devastatingly handsome, filthy rich, single men. Liam’s going to cry when he realises what he’s done.”

“What do you mean?” Louis questions, suddenly confused. 

“My dear, dear Louis. You’re beautiful and young and unattached and he’s tried so hard to keep you away from the type of men he’s inviting to sleep in our home. I doubt their friendship is strong enough to keep their eyes off you.” She sits back, finishing the stolen tea and winking at him. 

She’s suffering from a bout of insanity, Louis thinks. But no matter, he hasn’t the patience to question her delusions at the moment, so he settles for another, albeit far more pointed, eye roll. 

“I’m sure they’ll be quite occupied with all their manly posturing and competition. And I will be in the library, using Liam’s distraction to my advantage and reading as much as I like. All will be fine,” he tells himself more than her. “It’s just a few days, and then I won’t have to look at hi– them, again.” 

“Whatever helps you lay your pretty little head to rest at night,” she teases, heaving herself out of the chair and brushing her skirts out. “I’ll leave you to frantically rifle through your wardrobe for every blouse that shows off your collarbones, shall I? Best to be prepared.” 

“I hate you,” he calls to her retreating back as she makes her way to the door. “Most ardently!”

Her bright laughter follows her out of the room, echoing down the halls and in his head long after she’s gone.

The week goes by far too slow and at the same time, not slow enough.

Louis waits another two days after the events of the library before he gives in and speaks to Liam, though neither of them utter a word of apology. After that, everything is back to normal. 

The house is aflutter with excitement at the prospect of guests. Servants dance in and out of guest rooms, clearing dust and changing sheets. The stables are deep cleaned for good measure, though they’re always kept as spotless as can be anyway. The grounds are trimmed and the flowers watered and the lawns prepped for games. 

In the kitchens, where Louis finds himself more often than not, the cooks plan and scrap and replan meals as if they’re preparing for the queen herself to visit. Louis takes great pride in inserting his opinions on the matter until Mary, the elderly head cook who’s been employed by them long enough to know him better than anyone else, swats him over the head with a cloth and tells him to go bother someone else. 

As he skips through the house day to day in search of a housemaid to bother or something to try and help with, he thinks on how right this feels. Rosewood Hall was never made to house just the three of them, and it feels as if the manor is alive and grinning in anticipation of more bodies under its roof. 

Louis has always loved this. As a child, his happiest memories were having people come to stay. Often, during the summer, his father would invite families to stay for the entire season so that Louis and Liam wouldn’t be alone, shut away from other children. Countless hours were spent running through the halls, childish laughter spilling from every room. It was perfect. 

He can’t wait for the house to be like that again in the future. When Liam and Georgiana have their pre-planned (if late arriving) litter of children. When those children one day have cousins, maybe. 

For now, a bunch of rowdy young men will have to fill that gap. Louis is trying very hard not to focus on exactly who is coming to visit, and more on the fact that anyone is visiting at all.

When he thinks too hard about it over the week, he comes over in a sweat that has nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with just how unprepared he is to face Harry. To face any of Liam’s friends, to be honest. He’s terribly sheltered and any time spent with unfamiliar men since his failed coming out into society has been confined to short social encounters, never prolonged periods of time in his own house.

Hiding out in the library for their entire stay sounds better and better by the moment. Liam doesn’t seem the type to befriend men who enjoy reading, after all. 

Nevertheless, when they start arriving on Friday morning, Louis is standing in the courtyard beside Liam and Georgiana to greet them with a smile on his face and sweaty palms. 

Zayn Malik arrives first, completely unsurprisingly. He’s the only one Louis has spent any real time around in the past few years, and he’s always been one to arrive before anyone else. He has no real claim to any title, but he’s beautiful and rich enough that he’s just as sought after as any other lord or lady out there. He’s also lovely, and hilarious, and Louis can see why Liam enjoys his company. 

Next to grace their doorstep is Niall Horan, an eccentric Irish man who came home with Liam at the end of his first year of university and has visited a few times since. Louis likes him, if only because he has proved himself  a staunch ally in his cause to annoy his brother in any way possible. 

The next few who arrive hold little interest to Louis, though he keeps his smile plastered on and doesn’t miss the way they look him over as they greet him. Georgiana mutters something to him he doesn’t quite catch between arrivals, but the smugness radiating off of her tall frame tells him all he needs to know about whatever it is she said. He elbows her discreetly, or at least he thinks it’s discreet until Liam shoots them a glare that has them both sheepishly righting themselves. 

More and more men arrive, until he thinks he’s counted nine including Zayn and Niall. More than he expected but still it’s fine, he tells himself. He can get through this. 

They are all painfully attractive, even if some of them seem to be frighteningly pompous. 

Louis might be fucked. The call of the library is very hard to ignore as he stands watching the final carriage roll up the long stretch of road leading to their manor. 

It’s Harry. Undoubtedly. Evident not only because Liam had said there is only one person left to arrive, but because the carriage is easily the fanciest of the lot. Fancier than anything even they own, and likely still not even one of the Styles’ best. Even more evident when he catches a glimpse of brown curls through the window as the carriage rolls around and slows to a stop. 

The door to the carriage is opened for him, and out he strolls into the sunshine, ready to make Louis’ life all the more difficult.

Louis stops breathing.

Georgiana kicks him, sending the breath back into his lungs.

Liam, unaware of anything but Harry’s arrival, forgoes any formalities he’d bestowed upon his other guests and runs straight for the newcomer with wide open arms. 

“It’s been far too long, Styles,” Liam grins, gripping the Lord’s arms with a force that makes Louis’ own ache in sympathy. 

The other man seems unperturbed by the grip, grinning back as he shakes off the hands to bring Liam into a hug, clapping him on the back twice before stepping away. The blinding, lopsided grin never falters, nor does the dimple it brings out.

 “I saw you in the city not two months ago, you fool,” Harry laughs, pushing a strand of shoulder-length hair out of his eyes. It was much, much shorter the last time Louis saw him. It suits him painfully well.

“Like I said, too long!” Liam counters. “Now come, Georgiana has missed you terribly and I’m afraid she’s going to murder me in my sleep if I keep her standing out in the sun for much longer.”

Georgiana steps forward to greet them as they walk over, smiling as innocently as she is able. “My dear husband is very correct in his assumptions, though I suppose you’re worth the wait, Lord Styles,” she teases with a wink and a small curtsy that is entirely unnecessary. 

“Countess,” he replies easily, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to it. “Looking as lovely as ever. Such a shame you married this lump before I could snatch you,” he adds, earning fond laughs from the couple.

Louis watches the friendly ease between the three with something not unlike jealousy curling in his gut. Maybe less jealousy, and more just feeling incredibly left out. This is very clearly a reunion between three people who are very good friends, and here he stands beside them, practically a stranger to the newcomer. 

Not that they are strangers. It just feels like it, now more than ever. He doesn’t know this Harry, the Harry he hasn’t seen in four years. That Harry was younger, skinnier, and far less hairy. 

This Harry is a man. No longer twenty-two and unable to grow a beard. Now, he holds himself taller, filling out his waistcoat far more than he did then. Light stubble grazes his strong jaw, and Louis can’t help but wonder if he’s ever shaved it himself. It’s funny really, because Louis doesn’t know this Harry, and therefore there’s no reason for his misguided childhood infatuation to come hurtling back as hard as it is. 

Fuck.

Green eyes turn on him, and only then does the grin soften to a polite—if strained—smile. Louis becomes aware of Georgiana saying something, though the words aren’t registering in his brain. 

“You haven’t grown a bit,” Harry’s voice breaks through the barrier. The eyes are raking over him, a gentle scrutinisation. 

Unbidden, he flushes. “I assure you I have, Lord Styles. Though I fear my growth has come to an end. My mother’s genes, you see.”

Harry nods in acknowledgment. “I recall her fondly, the resemblance is more evident now than ever. It’s good to see you, Mr Tomlinson.” The smile Louis receives now is less strained than the one before. “You’ve been well, I hope?”

“Perfectly,” Louis smiles in reply, if a little awkwardly. “And do call me Louis. I do detest formalities, especially from such old friends.”

“Of course. Louis it is.” Harry agrees before turning back to Liam and an amused Georgiana. “Now, I trust there is tea? I am positively parched.”

“If the other men haven’t managed to drink us out of our supply,” Georgiana says, turning to lead them inside as the footmen handle the luggage. 

Louis stays at the back of their small procession, letting the three chatter away about the house and London and the plans for the weekend. None of them make any effort to bring him into the conversation, and so he stays quiet, once again pining for the library.

The pining strengthens as they reach the drawing room and the sheer noise that seems to come from within. How nine men manage to be so loud, Louis does not understand.

He slips away to the side of the room as they make their way in, letting Styles be caught up in eager greetings. 

The sandwiches laid out for the group have been all but demolished, much to the dismay of Louis’ empty stomach. He makes a note to run away from the gathering as soon as possible and head to the kitchens where Mary will surely make him a sandwich or let him pick at the array for tonight's dinner. 

Unfortunately that plan cannot be put into action whilst his idiot brother is blocking the door, so he puts that thought aside for a moment and heads for the large windows on the furthest side of the room. 

He allows himself a small smile as he takes in the view beyond them. It’s not his favourite view of the estate, that comes from his bedroom on the other side of the house, but this one is fine enough. His home is beautiful, after all, and pretty lawns, a swathe of flowers and the twinkling shores of the lake are nothing to scoff at. 

“Fancy a dip?” A voice sounds from beside Louis, startling him for a moment. He doesn’t turn to greet the intruder, only smiles to himself. 

“In present company? I’m not sure that would end well, Mr Malik,” Louis replies, tilting his head ever so slightly to acknowledge the well-dressed man next to him. 

“Oh I’m sure it would be thrilling, if only for the look on your brother’s face,” Zayn says with a grin that Louis doesn’t have to see to know is there. 

Finally allowing himself to look away from the view, he angles towards the other man and smiles gratefully, thanking god that there’s someone here not entirely terrifying. “Ask me again on Monday when I’m sure I’ll be suitably traumatised by the events of the weekend and ready to risk my reputation by diving into the lake with a handsome man,” he teases, delighting in the warmth in the brown eyes cast upon him.

“I’ll be sure to,” Zayn agrees, then sighs happily, bringing a glass to his lips and taking a sip. “I have missed it here. And you, of course, dear Louis. London is unbearable right now, I’m up to my neck in desperate mothers, and that’s without even attending any of the damned events. I got cornered trying to fetch a paper last week, it was awful.”

Louis laughs, shaking his head. “Oh how awful it must be to be so wanted. I do pity you, Mr Malik. Why not just pick one and be done with it all?” 

“My heart is not so easily won. Lord Styles appears to be having the same problem.”

“Oh?” Louis raises an eyebrow, feigning surprise. Perhaps he spends too much time with his brother’s wife.

Zayn smirks his signature smirk, sharp eyes firmly on Louis. He lowers his voice when he speaks, though the rest of the group are too far away and too preoccupied to hear them anyway. “He’s been downright cold this year. He departed the city earlier than I did, but even before that he was refusing dances and skulking about. He’s never the most active participant but he’s usually a lot more charming. Even the men have been gossiping about it.”

Interesting, Louis thinks to himself, casting a quick glance to the man in question. He looks happy enough here, clapping Niall on the back and gesturing to another one of Liam’s Oxford pals, John something or other. He was even kind to Louis, which he hadn’t been expecting after being excluded from his invitations to visit for four years.

“Do you think he might be betrothed to someone?” Louis asks then, drawing his eyes away from Harry and back to Mr Malik’s considering gaze. “To someone unfavourable, perhaps?”

Zayn hums, thinking it over. “It would explain his needing to continue masquerading as an eligible bachelor, if it were someone the Duke wouldn’t approve of,” he ponders. “It’s an intriguing thought.”

“That it is,” Louis agrees. It would be quite the scandal. Harry is to be a duke, it wouldn’t be appropriate for him to be wed to anyone but the best of the best. Louis remembers his father as a kind man, but even kind men have their limits when it comes to matters concerning their reputation.

“I’ll be sure to find out before the end of the weekend,” Zayn declares, grinning. “A little bit of the Malik charm and we’ll have to wonder no longer.”

“Ah, but that is only if you can pry the lord away from Liam’s bosom long enough to have a conversation with him,” Louis teases, throwing a conspiratorial wink.

Zayn laughs heartily, only stopping when someone else joins them, patting the man on the back.

“I see the real fun is over here,” Lord Styles says with a grin, seemingly oblivious to Zayn’s panicked attempt to stop laughing and Louis’ dawning horror. “Mr Malik,” he greets.

“Lord Styles,” Zayn splutters, managing to right himself and nod to the imposing man.

“Should I be mournful? I seem to have missed a rather amusing joke,” Harry’s eyes are firmly on Louis, who isn’t going to allow the strong gaze to get the better of him. A wave of nausea rushes over him, one that he tamps down immediately before he can allow it to take over.

“I was just telling Mr Malik about the summer of my tenth year, when Liam fell into the lake and you fell right behind trying to fish him out of it,” he explains, lying effortlessly. Harry doesn’t need to know that Zayn was told this story years ago. Neither of them need to know that Louis is out of his depth.

None the wiser, Harry laughs, glancing out towards the water. “I see, a fond memory of yours?” 

“The fondest.” Only half a lie. There are fonder, but it ranks. 

“I’m not sure I’ve ever recovered from the scalding your father gave us both once we made it out,” Harry admits good naturedly. “You’re lucky you escaped that one, given that you pushed your brother in.”

At that, Louis gasps, holding his hand to his chest. “I did not!” He exclaims. Zayn is chuckling again, looking between the two of them. Louis’ indignation overrides the anxiety, however briefly. “I was simply standing beside him when he tripped. I was and continue to be innocent.”

“That’s not quite how I remember it, but for Mr Malik’s sake I’ll allow you to feign innocence a little longer.” Harry’s grinning, the kind of grin he couldn’t give Louis earlier.

Zayn, deeply amused, takes the opening and pushes his way back into the conversation. “For what it’s worth, I’m sure Liam deserved it, if he was anything like he is now, then,” he offers, winking at Louis.

“He did. He was. Not that I did push him, of course.”

“Of course,” both Zayn and Harry say in unison, a look passing between them. 

Louis feels like he’s fighting a losing battle with these two particular men. In fact, he suddenly finds that he’s not entirely sure if he’s all that capable of much more conversation. He gets like this, sometimes, when he’s been out of unfamiliar company for so long. Conversation becomes hard, and tiring. It’s nothing to do with the devastatingly handsome faces that come with that conversation. Not at all. 

He shoots a glance across the parlour towards the other men, who are standing in a loose circle chatting away, drinks in hand. Georgiana is, thankfully, on the outskirts of the group, talking to her lady’s maid. He sees her now for what she is; an exit.

Bolstering himself, he turns back to his captive audience and plasters on a polite, regretful smile. 

“As much as I’ve enjoyed this little trip down memory lane, I’m afraid I have matters to discuss with the Countess. I trust I’ll speak to you both over the course of the weekend, if you do not find yourselves too distracted by the activities my brother has planned.” Perhaps rather rudely, he doesn’t allow them time to answer him before slipping away and making a quick dash for Georgiana.

She spots him coming, of course, leaving her lady’s maid mid conversation to meet him halfway, stopping him with a gentle hand on the arm. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you move so fast, little one,” she says with the slightest hint of concern. “Is everything alright?” 

“Perfect,” he insists, nodding a little too erratically for the statement to ring true. “I’m rather tired, actually. Perhaps the sun has gotten to me today. Do you think Liam will mind if I return to my rooms to rest for a while?”

“If you’re feeling unwell, I think he would mind more if you didn’t,” she tells him gently, patting him on the arm once before letting him go. “Go, I’ll send for someone to fetch you for dinner.”

“Thank you, sister,” he breathes thankfully, resisting the urge to bring her into an embrace he knows will take away at least half of his worries. “You are my favourite person, truly.”

“I know, I know. Now go before Mr Horan decides to rope you into some scheme,” Georgiana teases, ushering him out of the room. Nobody pays them any attention, no one but the servants who know better than to say anything. 

Grateful, he takes his leave without any protest. 

The long walk to his rooms passes by in a haze, and he remembers very little of it, until he finds himself tucked up in bed, fully dressed. The drapes remain open, summer sun pouring through the bare windows and covering every inch of his room. Sleep comes quickly, bathed in warmth. 

Dinner is the kind of hell that even rest could not have prepared him for.

Seemingly forgotten about, he’s summoned just a little too late to wash the remnants of a summer’s afternoon nap away, meaning that after rushing to dress and ready himself, he’s still a little too flushed and a lot unprepared for the evening ahead.

Everyone is already seated when he arrives in the smaller of their two dining rooms, all eyes turning to him as he stands in the doorway awkwardly. 

“Ah there you are brother!” Liam exclaims from the head of the table, clearly already a few drinks in if the red cheeks and dopey grin are any indication. “Come, sit!”

Georgiana catches his eye, flicking her eyes towards the empty seat between her and a man he can’t remember the name of. He hurries to it, sitting quickly and willing everyone to stop looking at him. 

“Very sorry about my late arrival,” he says as quiet as he can to still be heard by everyone. “I was feeling unwell, and must have slept heavier than intended. I hope you have not been waiting too long.”

“Not at all,” Georgiana assures him. Everyone else verbalises their agreement, finally looking away from him and continuing their conversations. Louis releases a breath for what feels like the first time since leaving his bed.

Shortly after he does, the side doors open and bowls of steaming soups arrive, placed in front of them carefully. Louis’ traitorous stomach chooses that moment to remember how empty it is, giving out a loud roar as the tantalising scent of chicken broth hits his nose. Fighting back a blush, he ignores it, grabbing his spoon with a shaking hand and allowing himself to eat before his stomach gets any more ideas.

Everyone else follows suit, the chatter dulling down and overtaken by the sound of overly fancy silverware hitting unnecessarily expensive china. 

As he finishes his last spoonful—having finished much quicker than anyone else—he realises that one set of eyes is still upon him. He meets them, the green gaze holding his from the chair on Liam’s other side, just slightly diagonal from Louis. 

Harry smirks, clearly unbothered by being caught out, and mouths, “Hungry?” The question makes no sound, but Louis reads it easily from his lips. 

The spoon he’s holding drops into the bowl with a little more force than he intended, though nobody notices but Harry, who’s still watching him carefully. He shakes his head at the lord, dismissing him, before leaning in to talk to Georgiana.

“Please tell me the name of the man sat beside me, it slipped my mind the moment he introduced himself,” he whispers, confident in his ability to be unheard by anyone else. 

Georgiana laughs, bringing a napkin up to her mouth and dabbing at it demurely. “Mr Jacob Martin. A keen hunter of both deer and women. Total pig, but smart.”

“Thank you,” he replies, before swiftly turning himself around to face the stranger. He feels Harry’s eyes on him all the while, which only furthers his resolve to get himself through this dinner without incident. “Mr Martin, we haven’t had a proper chance to talk!” he greets cheerfully, praying his anxieties aren’t bleeding into his words. He can do this. 

He’ll never find a husband if he can’t hold a fucking conversation with a single man he isn’t related to.

Mr Martin turns to face him, surprised. He has a plain face, the kind Louis wouldn’t take notice of if he weren’t placed next to the man. Brown eyes and a pale complexion, with the faintest hint of a wrinkle starting to form, but his golden hair remains full. There are no signs yet of him falling prey to the receding hairline that snatches so many handsome men. Though he must be younger than thirty, so there is still plenty of time.

The man smiles, and Louis has to admit it is a rather nice one. “Mr Tomlinson, I’m sorry I didn’t seek you out earlier. I trust you’re feeling better now?”

“Yes, much. I do not think the sun agrees with me, as lovely as it may be.” The bowls are taken away as he talks, an arm briefly cutting in between them.

“I see,” he replies, nodding seriously. “Perhaps if you’re to join us outside this weekend, we’ll have to keep you in the shade?” 

“Oh don’t worry, Mr Martin, I’ll stay there quite happily. I know better than to get between you men and your games, though I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for any foul play. I have a very keen eye,” Louis explains, leaning in as if it’s some great secret. His stomach churns as he does but he once again pushes it down.

The blond raises an eyebrow, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Is that so? I’ll be on my best behaviour then,” he responds. 

“A man of honour, or a man who knows when to back down?” Louis teases, mimicking the raised eyebrow.

The grin releases itself. “We shall see,” he replies, eyes looking upon Louis with a new sort of interest that even he isn’t blind to. 

Take that, Liam, he thinks to himself. Years of near isolation haven’t entirely broken his brain. He’s just thankful he made it through the conversation without ruining himself by vomiting his soup onto the man. 

The arrival of the next course saves him from having to talk further, an array of meats and vegetables stewed in various sauces brought out and set before them. He digs in gladly, though is careful to be a bit more refined this time, lest Harry find something else to mock him for.

Slowly filling up his empty stomach, the rest of the meal goes by with a few notable incidents. Mishaps. Tragedies, Louis would say, but Louis has a tendency for the dramatics.

The first mishap comes halfway through the main course when he manages to knock Georgiana’s knee under the table by accident, causing her to kick out her long leg and boot Lord Styles in the shin. The Lord laughs it off, and his sister in law has to hold back her own laughter whilst trying to apologise. Everyone else is somewhere between amused and horrified. Louis stares at a painting on the far wall until the noise in his head goes quiet and his breathing goes back to normal.

The second mishap is merely a small joke that doesn’t quite land, because nobody there sees him as quite like them, and he shouldn’t be making jokes that they are well within their rights to. It’s forgotten in the blink of an eye, by everyone but him.

The third mishap is the worst. The dinner is winding to a close. They’re all warm, sated and content. Louis is leaning towards the other end of the table, where Zayn is charming everyone with a long tale about his last visit to France, when he gets startled by a servant coming to clear away the last of the plates. A hand he wasn’t expecting brushes against his shoulder by accident, and in a matter of seconds, Louis manages to jump, turn, and send a full glass of wine clear across the table. 

Deep, dark red splashes against white cloth. He lives every slowed down, agonising second of watching the glass roll across the table, the liquid inside it sloshing further and further. Both Lord Styles and the man sat beside him, John something or other, get hit with a few nasty, staining droplets. 

As the glass ceases its movement, everyone too stays still. 

“Well,” Harry says carefully, eyeing Louis like he might cry at any given moment. Which Louis isn’t ruling out himself, if the lump in his throat is anything to go by. “I’m feeling rather thankful for my valet’s tendency to overpack clothes.”

The tension is broken, for everyone else but Louis, who remains suspended in his state of horror. The man beside Harry who also found himself in the line of fire is nodding along to the Lord’s joke and wiping himself off as if that’ll get rid of the blooming stain.

“I….” Louis starts, before realising that he doesn’t have anything to say. An apology, surely, is what’s trying to fight its way out, but he can’t quite catch his breath enough to form the words. 

“It’s okay, really,” Harry says. 

Liam says something about their housekeeper, Mrs Cooper, being excellent with stains, but Louis can’t entirely hear anything that isn’t the buzzing in his head and Harry’s awkward assurance. 

Georgiana taps the table beside his clenched fist, a warning before she gently reaches out to touch the back of his hand. “Louis, dear, would you like to step outside with me? I feel we could both use some air,” she says, both to him and to the table.

It’s tempting. It’s really, really tempting. He can’t, however, allow himself to seem any weaker than he’s already made himself look thus far. So instead of accepting her offer and running away as he did earlier, and how he often tends to do when things get hard, he shakes his head and offers her a look he knows she will understand.

A look that says I’m okay. I’m not going to start blubbering like a babe. I promise.

“I am a little warm,” he agrees, smiling at all the semi-concerned faces that can’t seem to look away from him. “but I think I can hold out until we retire for the night.” Turning towards the victims of his brief panic, he takes a deep breath. “I apologise for my clumsiness. I assure you I’ll lay off the wine for the rest of your visit. I fear it’s gone straight to my head.”

“All is forgiven,” The Man Who Isn’t Harry says kindly. He’s clearly had too much wine himself, if the way he’s looking at Louis is anything to go by. “If anyone was going to cover me in wine, I’m glad it was someone as beautiful as you.” 

Before Louis can tamper down his blush and find the words to respond to that, Liam is coughing. Loudly. 

“Well, I think that’s quite enough fun for one evening. Best we all get some rest before tomorrow,” Liam announces, standing up too fast and almost having his own catastrophe with a wine glass. He’s glaring daggers at the man opposite Louis, and Louis is about to step in when Harry does it for him, leaning into Liam’s space and whispering something that seems to do the trick.

Liam calms, but everyone takes his lead and starts getting themselves up and ready to leave anyway, sensing that the night really has come to a close.

Louis tries to feel guilty about his actions leading to an abrupt end but all he is is relieved. It’s late and even with his too-long nap, he’s exhausted from the day's events. 

As he’s about to sneak out to avoid the long, overdrawn goodnights he’s sure are about to start, he’s stopped by a firm but not imposing hand on his elbow. 

“Mr Tomlinson,” It’s Mr Martin, he finds upon turning to face the man. “I hope you sleep well,” is all he says, a genuine smile on his face. 

“You too,” Louis replies, offering his own smile in return. It’s just as genuine, if a little weary from the trauma of the dinner. The man lets him go once he’s received his reply, and turns to one of the other men to discuss something Louis doesn’t care for.

It gives him the space to slip out of the room, oblivious to the eyes following him out.

A sudden burst of bright sunlight hitting his face drags him out of his sleep the next morning. 

“You’ve overslept again.”

Louis groans, forcing himself to open his eyes. “So leave me be,” he mumbles grumpily, throwing a pillow towards the girl standing by his now-open curtains. She catches it easily, throwing it back. 

“The Lord won’t be best pleased if you lay here in bed all day while he entertains his guests,” she informs him, a teasing grin on her young face.

Louis never wanted a personal maid. A valet was out of the question, given his preferences, so he thought he’d be better off doing everything himself. And he does, mostly, but Effie had crawled her way into his heart the moment she was hired to be part of their staff. 

She’s a terrible maid. She has no clue how to work men’s clothing and is worse at time-keeping than he is, but she’s the same age as him and doesn’t treat him like she has to bow down to him, so she’s really rather perfect.

“The Lord can go fuck himself,” he proclaims, pushing himself up into a sitting position and thunking his head back against the headboard. “I missed breakfast, I presume?”

She nods, heading back across the room to retrieve the tray of fruit and toast she’d left on the table by the door, bringing it back and dropping it on his lap. “Let you sleep through it. One of the boys downstairs told me about last night.”

“Great. I have to kill myself,” Louis mutters, shoving a strawberry into his mouth. He mashes it about in there for far longer than is necessary.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Effie laughs, sitting on the end of his bed and patting his covered leg. “Nobody overheard any of the guests saying anything nasty about it. I think you handled it all quite well, given your-“ she makes a funny gesture with her hands, “you know.”

“My what?”

“You’re a bit of a—“

“I’ll fire you,” Louis interrupts. 

“You’d die without me,” she replies, rolling her eyes. “What I was trying to say before you lost your manners, is that you are often quite—nervous. Around people that don’t live and work in this house, that is.”

“Perhaps I am,” he agrees, shoving another piece of fruit into his mouth and finding that he’s not that hungry after all. “Do you think I can just leave the estate for the next few days? They might not even notice.”

“With the way your brother watches after you? He’d notice before you even left the house.”

She’s right. Unfortunately. He’s doomed, quite frankly. 

“Will you join me outside, at least? I don’t know if I'll survive this alone.” He’s begging, completely. Pulling out all of the stops, big eyes and a firm pout, as if she isn’t obliged to do everything he asks anyway. 

Effie sighs, acting put out. “Fine, It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

“Better help me dress then, before Liam sends Mr Jones up here to look for me.”

The fair-haired girl pulls a face at the mention of Liam’s stern valet. “Get out of bed then, you lazy arse.”

He does, but not because she told him to. Not at all.

By the time they make it to the gardens, walking arm in arm into the sunshine, the boys are already mid-game.

Standing around the flat lawn, staring at small metal balls with the kind of seriousness that should be afforded to something far more interesting, it’s quite the sight. Lawn bowls, Louis notes. Not his favourite game, certainly, what with it being the kind of game that will have you bored out of your skull in less than five minutes. 

Effie has given him a real blessing, leaving him to sleep through the start of the game. He can’t be roped into anything now. 

Georgiana spots them first when they make their entrance, from where she sits on a blanket under one of their biggest trees. The perfect shade. She waves them over with a grin, her red hair piled in an artful mess atop her head. Louis wastes no time in diving over to her before any of the others notice his presence and decide to talk to him. Effie follows, still attached to him.

“My lady,” Effie greets her as they both sit, Louis next to his sister-in-law and the maid a little away from them.

“Sweet Effie,” Georgiana grins. “Louis being a pain again?” 

“Always.”

“Hey!” Louis realises his mistake far too late. He’s outnumbered. Still, he’d much rather be outnumbered by strong-willed, impudent women than by his brother and the company he keeps . 

“Oh settle down, little one,” Georgiana laughs, patting his leg and somehow managing to make the gesture patronising. “We love you because you’re like this.” She looks away then when a cheer sounds out from the crowd of men, a small smile on her face when she catches Liam looking back at her. “Your brother, on the other hand—“

Louis groans, planting his back firmly against the tree. “Lay it on me,” he moans dramatically. “How long did his rant last? Minutes? Hours? Did you manage to sleep at all, with him blabbering on about my awful behaviour?”

“It wasn’t that bad. More—a conversation. I suppose it was a little one-sided. He glossed right over the wine thing and spent most of it talking about the way John reacted to the wine thing.” 

“It was a flirtatious joke!” Louis complains. He should have known Liam would get like this. 

“A flirtatious joke by his rake of a friend towards his lovely single brother,” Georgiana amends, smirking. Of course she’s enjoying this. This is basically paradise for her. Endless drama that she has a front row seat to. 

“And John’s still breathing?” Louis asks warily, searching the small sea of faces for the somewhat unfamiliar one from last night. He’s there, standing off to the side. He seems fine, at least. 

“Oh he’s fine. I convinced Liam not to send him home in the middle of the night, told him it would be quite rude.” 

“Mmm,” Louis hums, still frowning towards the men. “I don’t know about all this, George. Surely it would be for the best if I left, or at least stayed in my rooms.”

Having none of that, Georgiana shakes her head, patting his leg again. “Absolutely not. Besides, this is your best chance at gathering interest. You focus on plastering on that pretty smile, I’ll deal with the aftermath. If you’re lucky, perhaps one of these men will make a return visit or two.” She’s thought about this a lot, evidently. 

“You think Liam would let me marry one of his friends? Are you quite mad?” Louis asks, huffing out a short, disbelieving laugh. 

“I’m sure he can’t say no to every man that asks. He might approve, if he knows them better.” It comes out a little more dejected than her previous words. Perhaps she’s realising how insane she sounds.

Effie pipes up then, a little hesitantly. “Didn’t he turn down a prince?” she asks. 

“Yes,” both Louis and Georgiana say at the same time, Louis’ coming out as more of a groan.

“A prince of a small country!” Georgiana amends, indignant. “And he was quite ugly. And rude to Mrs Cooper.”

“But any other head of a family wouldn’t give a toss about that,” Louis whines. “And he’s said no to far nicer men.”

Georgiana sighs then, and Louis knows immediately that he’s in for a bit of a rant that will likely leave him feeling awful about himself. “He just wants you to be happy, you know? It’s not—it means a lot to him that you respect his opinion. Your father worried about you a lot, about your status in life and how you would fair out in the world, and Liam inherited a lot of that concern. It’s not your fault, and they both should have prepared you a lot better, but you’re rather naive about just how horrible some men can be. If he’s said no to someone, it’s only because he knows you can’t find happiness with them.” 

He was right. He does feel like shit. That feeling is accompanied by rather a lot of anger, the kind that often rears its ugly head when he feels the walls of his life closing in on him. But that anger isn’t Georgiana’s—or anyone else’s—fault, and so he takes a deep breath and wills it down.

“I know,” he acquiesces. “I know. I understand, really. But I fear that his fear is blinding his judgement. I should be allowed the chance to make mistakes the same as any other person.” 

“You should,” she agrees. “I’m trying to change his mind, I am. You’re very stubborn, the both of you.”

Louis laughs softly, a small smile lingering after. “It’s why you fit in so well, dear. You too, Effie. I’m sure that being stubborn is part of the requirement for entering this household.”

“Quite right,” Effie grins and shoots him a wink. 

The tension brought on by their conversing eases after that, each of them relaxing into the warmth of the day. Georgiana goes back to the book she was reading, some frilly romance novel that Louis will be sure to read after. Effie watches the game with far more interest than Louis holds, and he notes that she doesn’t seem to be interested in the men at all, simply the game and how it’s being played. 

Louis watches too, though his interest decidedly does not lie with the game.

First, it’s taken by the man he sat beside last night, Mr Jacob Martin. The man in question seems just as interested in the game as he is, considering the amount of times their eyes happen to meet. Louis is not all that bothered by the attention, aside from a few traitorous tugs in his chest. Though, it is at least a bit concerning to him that the man looks far more handsome in the light of the sun, his golden hair pushed back and shining. 

The next thing that holds his interest in passing is a very determined Zayn Malik, glaring down at the balls and at any man who steps into his path. The glare only softens once over the course of the game, when Louis lets out a loud cheer after a particularly good bowl. Then, Louis is offered a rather lovely smile from afar, and a smack in the leg from Georgiana who jumps at the sudden noise.

By far the most strong holder of his interest happens to be the future duke himself, Lord Styles. Lord Styles who isn’t even playing the game and yet somehow manages to worm his way into Louis’ line of sight constantly. Lord Styles who’s loud, booming laugh reaches their tree so often that even Georgiana is getting sick of it.

He’s just there, and Louis doesn’t want to be so obsessed with the sight of him but he is. Even Mr Martin’s sunbeam hair holds no candle to the glory that is Harry in the sunshine. His long hair is held back with what looks to be a ribbon, and with it out of the way all he can see is that downright sinful jawline and the way it moves when he chews on a slice of apple for an unnecessary amount of time. 

Truthfully, once Louis locks eyes on him for the first time, there is hardly a moment where he isn’t looking at him. 

And Harry doesn’t look his way once. It does not vex him. Not at all. Not even the slightest bit.

It is not vexation that causes him to shoot up the moment the game ends and worm his way into the group. It’s simply a want to socialise, of course. 

It doesn’t at all bring him the slightest ounce of joy when Harry finally looks at him as they’re standing by the table full of refreshments. 

“Lord Styles,” he greets, completely nonchalantly. “Good game?” 

He smiles politely, handing Louis a drink before Louis can reach for one himself. “It was, though I didn’t feel an urge to play today. Mr Malik won, of course.”

“Of course,” Louis laughs, trying desperately not to stare at the cup in his hand. “He’s very serious when it comes to games. I wouldn’t dare play anything he was playing.”

“A smart man,” Harry compliments with a totally not heart-shattering wink. 

“A coward, I think,” Louis jokes, before taking a calming sip of the cool lemonade. “I enjoy winning far too much to sign myself up to lose. I am an incredibly sore loser, as I’m sure you’ll remember.” 

A lot of the summers they spent in each other’s company in their youth were chock-full of Louis’ inability to lose. Out of all losses, the ones he cannot take the most are to Liam. He flushes at the hazy memories of tipped over chess boards and broken sticks, a few of which Harry will have witnessed. 

“I recall,” the Lord replies good-naturedly. “I would still very much like to see how you fair these days, especially in this company. I’m sure you could show a few of these boys how to play.” 

“Perhaps another time,” Louis agrees, though he has no intention of joining in on the games. Trying to gather the courage to talk to a man is enough work without adding complicated game rules and competition into it.

There’s a loud bout of laughter from across the lawn and both of them instinctively turn towards it, Louis smiling to himself when he sees Niall Horan acting a fool. 

“About last night,” Harry says suddenly, as if he’d been debating on whether to say anything. Louis whips back around to look at him. 

“Do not finish that thought,” Louis says just as abruptly. 

Harry looks at him oddly, as if assessing him. With a small frown, it seems the assessment is over. “I only wish to say that you do not have to dwell on it. The rest of the men will surely forget by tonight.”

“And you?” Louis asks, raising an eyebrow. “Will you forget?”

“I will remember every second of it fondly,” the Lord says, no trace of a tease in his words. 

Louis almost blacks out. Probably would have blacked out, if not for Liam choosing that moment to push in between them to grab a grape from the bowl sitting to the right of Louis’ hip. 

“Brother. Harry.” He greets each of them in turn, popping the grape into his mouth and chewing obnoxiously. It’s far less endearing on him than it was on Harry earlier.

“Good game?” Louis asks him, ignoring Harry’s smile when he repeats the question. 

“Wonderful!” Liam answers exuberantly, and Louis can’t find it in him to be annoyed by the interruption anymore. Not when his brother is so cheerful. “Bowls isn’t my favourite as you know but I do love some good competition. You should have joined, both of you.”

“I was enjoying Georgiana’s company,” Louis explains at the same time as Harry says “Perhaps next time,” and there’s an awkward moment where they all laugh at the garbled attempt at three-way communication. 

“Perhaps next time,” Harry starts again, throwing another wink towards Louis, “we’ll both play.”

“Oh, please!” Liam begs, pulling Louis into a half-headlock, half-hug that Louis immediately finds himself trying to push out of. “I do miss besting you both.”

“I would easily best you and then spend the rest of the day gloating about it, brother,” Louis promises, freeing himself from the hold and fixing his ruffled collar. “You are slowing in your old age.”

Both Harry and Liam squawk at that, Harry gripping on to Liam’s arm and plastering on a look of deep, deep offence. “Are you hearing this, Liam? He’s calling us old,” he gasps out, shaking his head. “If we’re old now, god forbid how he’ll see us when we turn twenty seven. He’ll be gifting you a cane for christmas I’m sure of it.”

Louis can’t quite hide his grin at the dramatic display. “I gave him one already, actually. For his last birthday. A rather fine one too,” he tells Harry, grinning further when the man drops his act to laugh at that.

“You’re brilliant, Louis. Truly,” he tells him, laughter still ringing through the words. 

“I do try,” Louis throws back, grinning. The grin falters slightly when he sees the way Liam is looking at him, contemplative beside Harry.

Harry notices around the same time, confusion settling into his own expression. Liam breaks his gaze away from

Louis suddenly, clapping Harry on the shoulder a little too hard and smiling just a smidgen too tightly. 

“Harry, I believe Mr Huntington wanted a chat with you about a part of your father’s estate. I came over here to collect you but it slipped my mind.” He laughs then, rolling his eyes at himself. “Perhaps I am getting old after all. Will you talk with him?” 

Frowning, Harry nods. “I—yes, of course. I’ll go now?” He asks more than states. Liam nods, ushering him off.

He’s halfway across the lawn, heading towards a few of the men who seem to be talking about anything but business, before Liam turns back to Louis, pinning him there with a stern look.

Louis would be terrified if he weren’t instead just deeply confused by whatever just happened. He returns Liam’s look with a questioning one of his own.

“No,” is all Liam says, which is not clearing up anything.

“No?” he asks, frowning deeper. “No what?!” 

“You are not flirting with Harry.”

And what? What the hell is that supposed to mean? “I’m not! We were having a conversation! You were right there!” Louis knows he’s speaking far too loud but he can’t find it in himself to care. “Are you unwell mentally?”

“I am perfectly sane, brother. I am simply telling you that whatever that was, it will not happen again. Not with anyone here, but certainly not with him.” Liam’s angry, Louis doesn’t need to be particularly smart to figure that out, but this is far beyond anything he’s ever seen before.

He’s not sure he can take it. So instead of spurting out any of the hundreds of different indignant retorts that come to his mind, Louis simply nods. Backing down is not something he often does, not with Liam, but this isn’t worth it. 

“I’ll stay away from him,” he promises quietly, putting down the still-full cup of lemonade on the table. “But I promise, Liam, we were just talking. We are friends too, you know? Don’t be mad at him, not when you have only a little time together.” 

That seems to calm him a little, at least. The anger dissipates into a strange sort of awkwardness. Truthfully, Louis is still confused.

They’re saved from whatever that was by the announcement that a late lunch is ready to be served in the dining hall. Louis breathes a sigh of relief.

“Hungry?” he asks, forcing nonchalance.

“Always,” Liam jokes.

Louis laughs before promptly running away under the pretence of finding Effie for something. It seems that all he’s done in the past twenty four hours is run away from things, or people, and he’s quite ready for everyone to bugger off home so he can finally relax.

The lunch, and then drinks, and then dinner, thankfully pass with very little incident. 

Louis keeps Effie plastered to his side as a buffer, propriety be damned, and demands she be set a place for both meals. Nobody dares to say a thing about it, not when Liam happily agrees to it and quickly shuts down any question of it being right for a maid to join them at the table.

Mr Martin strikes up a conversation with him again during lunch, but it’s made up entirely of talk of hunting—which Louis hates, deeply—so smiling and nodding and pretending he’s listening at all is all he contributes to that. 

Zayn saves him during dinner, snagging the seat on his other side before anyone else can and entertaining him throughout with stories of his travels and wild, clearly made-up tales of this year’s London season that have Louis fighting to swallow his food through the laughter. It’s the most relaxed he’s felt since the men arrived, and he manages to get through the meal without ever once feeling like he has to pretend to be someone else to survive it. 

It’s a successful day, despite a late start and a rocky patch in the middle. He stays away from Harry and doesn’t make a fool of himself and isn’t on the receiving end of any more looks of disappointment from his brother, so all in all, he’s doing well when he finally climbs into bed that night.

He falls asleep relatively quickly, tired from the sun and full with food.

There are no dreams, only flashes of whispers of images that don’t take form and flit away as quickly as they come. His body is just as restless as his mind, tossing and turning and twisting in the sheets as the temperature in the room starts to edge closer to too-warm.

Louis wakes like that only hours after falling asleep, covered in a thin layer of sweat. He knows by the darkness that peeks through the cracks in the curtains that it is far too early, but the bed seems too suffocating all of a sudden, his throat too dry, and he hardly has to think about it before he’s diving out of bed and pulling on the first piece of clothing he can find that he doesn’t need help to put on.

Clad in simple trousers, a thin white blouse hastily buttoned and nothing else, he finds himself dashing out of his room and to the one place he always goes when it’s late and he’s restless; the kitchens.

In the daytime, bustling with kind, overly-friendly staff and filled with heavy aromas, it’s always been a place of comfort for Louis. That comfort lingers in the dark of night when the fires have cooled and the servants have retired. He longs for it now as he heads towards it, bare feet tapping along the cool wood of the hallways, his pathway lit by the few lamps that are left burning throughout the night.

He expects that it might not be empty. Mary is an odd woman who often wakes up in the night with a need to cook something. So he’s not wholly surprised when he reaches the door and hears something within. Only mildly disappointed that he won’t find the solitude he’d hoped for.

He is, however, very surprised when he walks through the door and finds not a portly middle-aged woman pottering about but instead Harry Styles, sitting at the long wooden table in the centre of the room, reading one of his books.

“Oh!” Louis gasps, because he’s genuinely startled and can’t find a single word to say.

Harry jumps, dropping the book to the table and nearly knocking over a jug of water he’d obviously prepared for himself in the process. “Louis, Christ, you scared me,” he says in a breathy laugh.

“I’m sorry!” Louis replies, because that feels like the right thing to say and not because he’s actually all that apologetic. He comes into the room fully, letting the door close behind him. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to be down here. What are you doing down here?”

Lifting up the book again, Harry gestures it in Louis’ direction. “Reading?” 

“In the kitchen?” Louis asks incredulously. 

Harry shrugs. “I always liked the kitchens here. My water was empty too, and it is far too warm to go thirsty. What are you doing down here?”

Louis plonks down into a chair opposite and reaches over to bring the jug to himself, pouring himself a glass and taking a sip as he talks. “My room gets dreadfully warm in the summer. Couldn’t sleep, so it was here or the library,” he explains. Not that he really has to, because why else would someone be wandering in the middle of a summer night.

“Mm,” Harry acknowledges, watching him carefully. “Your brother told me not to talk to you,” he says then, casually, as if that’s just something you throw into conversation.

“Ah, good, we’re talking about it then,” Louis half-jokes, before taking another hefty sip of water and leaning back in the just slightly uncomfortable chair. It creaks the slightest bit as he does. “I didn’t quite get the same instructions. I was simply told not to flirt with you, which I’m quite sure is a rule I was already abiding by, given that I have no clue how to converse with men much less flirt with them.”

He’s talking far more and far more confidently than he usually would be able to, especially alone with someone he very much shouldn’t be alone with, but he finds that the comfort of his favourite haunt and the haziness in his brain is calming his nerves. Harry is thankfully showing no signs of being perturbed by the way he’s speaking, so he at least knows that he’s not accidentally said something truly awful or insulting.

Societal rules are tiring, he thinks to himself.

“You seemed perfectly comfortable flirting with Jacob Martin,” Harry says, somewhat accusingly. His still-tied up hair is messy from aborted sleep and Louis can’t help tracking the movement of Harry’s hand as he reaches up to tuck a strand behind his ear. 

He’s so focused on that that he almost forgets to be offended by the words. Almost.

“Excuse me?” He asks, aghast. “I was not flirting with Mr Martin.” At least not much, anyway. 

“From where I was sitting, it certainly looked like it.”

Louis huffs, folding his arms petulantly and glaring the man down. “And why were you looking, Lord Styles? If you’re trying to baby me, I wouldn’t worry yourself. Liam is already managing that quite successfully, I don’t believe he needs a second pair of eyes.”

Harry shakes his head, the recently tucked-away strand of hair slipping loose again. “I do not wish to baby you,” he says, and it sounds earnest to Louis’ ears. “I am just not overly fond of Mr Martin, and I am fond enough of you to pray that you do not find yourself infatuated with a man like him.”

Trying hard to remain visually unphased, Louis takes that small admission of fondness that surely meant very little and tucks it away to fret about later. 

“That sounds awfully like something my brother would say,” Louis accuses, smiling a little at the face Harry pulls in response to that. “But you need not worry. There is absolutely no risk of me falling for Mr Martin’s charms. I’m well aware of the kind of man he is.”

The other man looks pleased by that, at least, and Louis tries not to let that thrill him. He is not a fool, and he cannot allow himself to think foolish things about his brother’s closest friend.

“I am glad,” Harry tells him. “He’s a terrible bore, anyway. You don’t want to be tied to someone who can hardly hold a conversation that doesn’t revolve around the supposed ‘thrill of the hunt’,” he explains further, rolling his eyes. “It’s awful, honestly.”

“And you have much more to offer, do you?” Louis teases, finding himself grinning at the ease in which Harry is talking to him. 

“Absolutely,” Harry replies without hesitation, dimple popping with his matching grin. “I am a wonderful conversationalist.”

“That is not what I’ve heard, personally,” Louis retorts. It’s a challenge. It’s flirting, if he’s being honest with himself. Which he isn’t.

“Oh? Do tell,” Harry shoots back with a raised eyebrow, tone much the same. 

“Well,” Louis starts, suddenly nervous. He’s taking a step away from the warm waters of friendly conversation and quite possibly treading right into danger, bringing up something like this. But he’s young, and socially inexperienced, and very, very curious. “I heard you have been quite quiet when it comes to the eligible ladies currently parading around London. I wonder if any of those would call you a wonderful conversationalist, if one happened to ask them.”

Harry would seem totally unbothered by the question, and if Louis’ sole focus wasn’t on the man’s face, he wouldn’t have caught the slight twitch in his right eye that belies the slightest discomfort. Interesting. 

Keeping his cool mask of indifference intact, Harry shrugs. “Perhaps those ladies do not inspire me to show my wit. I feel as though they do not desire to make conversation as much as they desire the title I am set to inherit.” The words are not spoken cruelly, nor with any air of sadness at the thought.

“Perhaps,” Louis agrees. “I’d say they are missing out, but if they were more intriguing then I fear you would not be here this weekend, and I would be stuck conversing with the more boorish of Liam’s friends.”

“Ah, so you would miss me?” Harry teases, the cocky grin making a stellar reappearance. 

“I have missed you,” Louis admits, because maybe he is a fool, and maybe he is just too tired to stop himself. Harry’s grin drops as he says it, along with Louis’ stomach. 

“You never came to Chatsworth,” Harry says, questioning. 

Confusion, with the slightest hint of anger, swirls through Louis’ head. Why would he go to Chatsworth? To Harry’s home, without an invitation? 

“You did not invite me?” Louis questions, trying not to be accusing but not caring at all when it comes out that way anyway. 

Harry sits up straight then, almost knocking the table. “I did, Louis. I did invite you. I mentioned your name in every invitation, every time. I thought you did not want to come.” 

Oh, he is going to murder Liam. 

He is going to write a long, lengthy apology to Georgiana and then slit Liam’s backstabbing, overbearing throat. 

“Ah,” Louis says before pausing to take a deep, calming breath. “It seems my brother failed to inform me of that. In fact, he explicitly told me that I was not invited.”

They both seem to stew on the heaviness of that for a moment, confused. It doesn’t make sense to Louis, not in the slightest. Liam has always had plenty of reasons to keep him away from other men, from touchy pigs and opportunistic sir’s with little standing of their own who would not care for Louis as a person, but this has nothing to do with that.

Harry isn’t trying to court him. They were always friendly as children, in the way that you are expected to be friends with another child that happens to orbit around your family. But there was never an indication of anything more, aside from a one-sided crush from a child.

Did Liam know, all along, of Louis’ stupid childhood infatuation? Surely even if so, it could not have warranted him keeping them apart the moment Louis turned eighteen. 

It hurt Louis. Not being invited to a place he always considered a home away from home, with a family he was fond of, really hurt him. He did not just miss Harry, but also Gemma and Anne and the Duke. 

“I am sorry,” Harry says suddenly. “If you ever felt like you were unwelcome. I promise, if I could find every letter I sent, you would see I always asked after you. I always made certain you were invited, even after you did not show. I always—Liam always had an excuse. I just believed him.”

“As did I,” Louis says. “I never questioned it. I thought I had offended you, after my father died—when I cried on you, I know it wasn’t proper, I thought that was why.”

The memory pains him so much it hurts just to bring it up, the embarrassment that comes with the thought of Harry remembering him that way is too strong. 

Harry seems distraught at that, at the implication of Louis believing that for years, and it does something to soothe the ache in Louis’ heart. “No! No, never,” Harry all but shouts, leaning just slightly across the table towards him. “I hate that you could think that of me. You were grieving, the only grievance I felt with that was not being able to take that pain from you.”

It’s so fucking earnest that Louis almost can’t take it. His beautiful face is so open and honest in the dim lamplight, looking at Louis so intently. Like if he just stares at him for long enough the words will sink in and be believed. 

He can’t take the sincerity, nor the depth this conversation has reached. The urge to run away rears its head again, stronger than any other time he’s felt it in all twenty two years of his life. 

It takes him five seconds to decide what to do.

He has to run.

“It’s late,” he says, jolting up so quickly from the table that he knocks the pitcher of water over. It flows across the table and seeps into Harry’s book, his book. He doesn’t care, not when running is all that’s on his mind right now. That, and killing his brother.

“Wait!” Harry calls, standing up with much more grace than Louis but with just as much urgency. 

“Goodnight, Lord Styles,” Louis says, quietly. Softly.

Then, he runs. 

He runs and runs and doesn’t stop running until he reaches his bed, sweaty and out of breath. Collapsing into it, he makes a promise to himself he intends to keep.

He will not leave this room until the guests are gone. Until Harry Styles is out of his house and back where he belongs, far away from Louis’ life.

That’s the safest move, for everyone. Louis doesn’t need this. He doesn’t need stupid, unwelcome, childish feelings that have no place in his adult life. They need to stay where they were buried, with his grief stricken eighteen year old self who promised himself to be done with the idea of his brother’s friend.

So he will banish them with Harry’s departure, and he won’t allow himself the goodbye. 

And then, when the men are gone and he is free to think clearly, he will think more about the imminent murder of his snake of a brother.

It’s almost too easy to hide away for the rest of the weekend. 

Louis is well versed in feigning illness. All it takes is a few well placed coughs, one feeble swoon while trying to dress himself and a blank, hazy look and Effie is practically forcing him back into bed with a promise to bring him lunch once he’s rested.

After that, it’s as simple as keeping it up. He does so gladly, drifting in and out of sleep with ease thanks to the completely sleepless night he spent concocting the plan and absolutely not thinking of Harry. 

He keeps it up throughout Sunday, making himself look pitiful each time Effie checks on him, and soon enough it’s Monday morning and he only has to keep it up for a few more hours before all of the men slowly make their way out.

Unable to come in and see him through fear of catching something, Zayn leaves him a note wishing him well and promising to visit again soon, with every intention to write in the meantime. Mr Martin also sends his goodbyes with a smirking Effie, who does not usually enjoy passing messages but apparently can make an exception if she finds it amusing. 

Harry does not send word. Which is fine, because Louis did not expect him to. 

It’s fine. 

Soon enough, everyone is gone. Louis spends the rest of the day in his rooms, though he moves from his bed to the lounge to sow the seeds of his recovery. 

It’s nighttime before he sees anyone other than Effie. 

He’s sitting in front of the unlit fire, feet curled up beneath him on the settee, sketching in one of his small, leather bound journals when the door opens.

“You look well, brother,” Liam says when he walks in and takes stock of him, thankfully missing the look of unpleasant surprise on Louis’ face. “Effie said you looked awful yesterday. I’m sorry I didn’t come and see you.”

He perches on the arm of the settee, looking down on Louis, still checking him over with some worry. Louis fights the urge to reach his leg out to kick him off.

“No need for apologies,” Louis says, amazed at himself for how calm it comes out. “You were busy with guests, and I was not the best company. I am sorry I missed the last full day, did you play? Or hunt?”

He knows they played croquet. He watched from the window, between sleeps. 

“Ah we played a few games,” Liam tells him. “Nothing remarkably interesting. Everyone missed you, of course.”

“Of course,” Louis answers with a small smile. 

Liam doesn’t seem guilty about anything, Louis notes. Harry must not have told him about their conversation. He would have brought it up by now, if he had. Made some excuses, grovelled a little. 

Louis wonders why Harry didn’t say anything. Did it not bother him so much after all, that Liam lied to both of them for no apparent reason? Louis is buzzing with questions, almost unable to hold them in, how did Harry manage to spend an entire day around him without pinning him down and demanding answers? 

“Do you need anything? I know you’re terrible at asking Effie to do her job, is there anything I can get sent up for you, some tea perhaps?” There Liam goes again, acting like both his mother and his father. 

Louis shakes his head. “I’m perfectly fine, don’t worry yourself. I’ll be back to annoying everyone by tomorrow, I’m sure of it.”

“Mm, if you’re sure,” Liam says, uncertain. He leans over to press a hand to Louis’ forehead briefly before settling back into his previous position, seemingly satisfied with the lack of warmth he felt there. “If you need anything, ring for someone. Okay?” 

“Yes, mother,” Louis says with an eye roll, because no matter how old he is he will continue to have the same response to being babied by his older brother. 

His brother takes to it as he often does; kindly. “Brat,” he jokes, shaking his head fondly. He stands then, righting himself. “I’ll leave you be. I hope to see you at breakfast tomorrow, but do not force yourself if you are still feeling under the weather.”

“I’ll be there,” Louis promises. He can’t keep this up forever. 

Liam nods, offering him a smile before taking his leave, leaving Louis to his solitude once again.

Louis breathes a sigh of relief. It was harder than he thought it might be, seeing Liam again with the knowledge he has now. Oddly enough, the anger he expected to feel takes second place to the confusion. 

Thoughts of murdering Liam stay firmly at the back of his mind, for if he murders him he’ll never find out just what the hell he was thinking, leaving Louis to think he was unwanted. Leaving Louis to mope about the house alone while he and Georgiana visited Chatsworth without him. Surely a crush does not warrant such measures, not one that Louis never dreamed of acting on. He never even showed it, he’s certain. 

Louis supposes he could just ask. But that would expose himself, after promising to stay away from Harry. It would expose Harry, who apparently made a similar promise. As angry as he is, he knows what the friendship means to Liam. To Harry. He won’t be the person who causes a strain on that for the sake of answers. Not if Harry didn’t ask himself. Clearly it did not mean all that much.

Perhaps he can ask Georgiana. She won’t rat him out if he asks her nicely. Does she even know? Likely not, Louis can’t see her excluding him unless it were for good reason.

And a good reason, he cannot find.

Ah well, he thinks to himself, going back to sketching. It may just be another thing he’ll never know. It’s not like he’ll be faced with Harry again. 

“Mr Malik is coming to stay,” Liam says over dinner one night, three weeks later. It’s just them tonight, Georgiana having taken dinner in her rooms thanks to a rather persistent migraine. 

Louis, who had been so focussed on eating after a missed lunch due to getting lost in a book in the library, almost misses the words. He looks up from his plate, frowning in confusion. “So soon?” he asks. 

“He has some business in Scotland and wishes to stop here on the way to break up the journey,” Liam explains. “He should be arriving in the next few days. I only received word this morning.”

“I see,” Louis nods, smiling to himself. It will be nice to have him, even if only for a short time. He always has been wonderful company. “I look forward to it, then.”

“His letter all but demanded that we play a game of lawn bowls again, you included this time. It seems he has not had enough of winning,” Liam jokes. 

Louis groans. “Do I have to?”

“I insist,” Liam replies, grinning. 

“Fine,” Louis agrees, albeit begrudgingly. “But I am agreeing only for Zayn. Not you.”

“As expected,” Liam laughs it off before carefully putting down his cutlery despite still having a quarter of his meal left.  “I also have other news.”

He looks, to Louis’ trained eye, nervous. Not the bad kind of nervous, for Liam that usually involves a lot of sweating and shaky hands. This is a different kind of nervous. An excited nervous, evident in the twitch of his cheek and the jittery way he’s rubbing his hands together.

“What is it?” Louis asks, momentarily worried that Liam might have promised him off to someone without talking to him first. He vanishes that thought quickly.

“Georgiana is with child,” he says, smiling around the words. 

It’s not what Louis expected. In fact, it’s such a shock that he doesn’t say anything for a few moments. The unspoken problems with conceiving have laid heavy in their household since his brother’s wedding. He’s seen the disappointment in Georgiana’s eyes month after month for years as her bleed came and went. He knows that Liam has worried about it, about providing an heir—especially when Louis’ children will be heir to their other father’s household, and therefore he cannot provide one—but their marriage has remained firm in spite of that.

And now, finally, she is with child. 

“Oh, Liam,” Louis breathes softly, finding the grin that comes to his face the only unforced one he has given his brother since he learned of the Harry Thing. “I cannot tell you how much joy that brings me. How long?”

“A few months, the doctor thinks. We wanted to tell you sooner, but there were some minor complications with her feeling unwell. We did not wish to worry you,” Liam explains. The flash of concern across his eyes when he speaks of it only softens Louis further. “She is well now. It is normal for the women in her family to suffer from a difficult pregnancy, apparently. The migraines may persist, but the baby is fine.” 

Louis nods, listening intently. “And she will be fine to host guests again? Christ, the other week must have taken a lot out of her.” 

Liam laughs, shaking his head. “It is only Zayn, and she wasn’t suffering as much before. Only this past fortnight has it started to plague her so. She knows she can step away if she ever needs to.” 

“If you are sure,” Louis concedes. Then, as the reality of the situation really, truly, hits him for the first time, he grins again, giddy. “A child! Liam, a little baby! Oh, I am so excited, aren’t you?”

“I am both elated and completely terrified, of course,” Liam answers, only half joking. “I have no clue how to raise a child. I was too young to watch mother with you as a child, and then too busy mourning her to take notice of how father took the reins. I am not sure I know what to do. I only know what father taught me about being responsible for the money and the land and you. ”

It’s a lot more open than Louis was expecting his brother to be. The mention of their mother, and subsequently her death, does not fill Louis with the same grief he feels with his father. Simply a distant longing for someone he doesn’t feel he has a right to miss. 

He was too young to know the loss. Liam was not afforded the same grace. Louis often forgets that and therefore, often forgets the depth of Liam’s pain. It’s only normal, he supposes, that pain of that nature would rear its head upon finding you’re about to be a father. 

It's hard to find the right words to assure Liam that there is nothing to worry about. As many gripes as he has with his brother, he knows beyond anything else that Liam will love his child with his whole heart and soul.

The right words do not come, and so he does the next best thing. He gets up from the table, waving off the footman who tries to help him, and moves around to the head of the table to throw his arms around Liam’s shoulders. 

Positioned awkwardly, pressed against Liam’s side with his cheek pressed to the top of his head and his arms wrapped around his brother’s arms, he squeezes hard. 

Louis is a tactile person, always has been. He sat on his father’s lap often as a child, clinging to him even long past the age in which that is seen as acceptable. He hugged the maids and the cooks and the housekeeper whenever he could, to the point where his father had to explicitly tell them that it was okay and that they wouldn’t get in trouble for showing him the affection he craved. 

It was always easier for him to show his emotions via touch. Words weren’t always easy. They still aren’t. 

Him and Liam did not hug often. The few times they did, it was out of necessity. When words refused to come and the pain was too deep for anything other than a warm embrace. Then, his brother’s hugs brought him more comfort than any other ever could.

Now, he channels that feeling once again. Not of pain and desperation this time, but of reassurance. Of faith in him. 

Liam responds in kind, holding on to Louis’ arm like a lifeline. “Thank you,” he whispers, clearly receiving the message. 

“Do not thank me,” Louis mutters into Liam’s hair, pulling a face at the smell of the pomade keeping his hair slick. 

He pulls away then, giving Liam one last pat on the shoulder. Liam smiles up at him, teary eyed and open. Louis finds he can’t quite reach the anger he holds for the man, even slowly feels the last bit of it drain away. For now, at least. 

“Now,” Louis coughs, righting his cravat and slipping back into his seat, allowing the footman to help him this time. “Dessert?”

“Dessert.” Liam agrees, ignoring the fact that a good portion of his second course still sits in front of him. 

The footmen, generally unphased by the display they just witnessed thanks to years of service with their odd little family, scurry off to collect the next course without complaint.

Louis and Liam share another smile; hopeful, relieved. Their odd little family is about to grow.

Zayn arrives two days later, late in the evening.

Louis is the only one about when he arrives, Liam and Georgiana having retired to bed early due to another bad headache. 

He bumps right into Zayn on his way out of the library, nearly sending both of them flying. Luckily Mr Malik is far less clumsy than Louis and steadies them both with a firm grip before any damage can be done. “Hello, Louis,” Zayn says with a grin, completely unphased.

“Bloody hell,” Louis laughs, clinging onto Zayn’s arm and trying to calm his rapid breath. “I am so, so sorry.”

“No harm done. I apologise for skulking about your home so late, I only just arrived,” he explains, finally letting go of Louis when he’s sure the smaller man won’t fall if he does. “Had some trouble with one of the horses, or I would have been here this morning.”

Louis nods, holding his book to his chest. He’s not dressed for company, in his lounging about the house clothes. If it were anyone other than Zayn he might mind more. “Is the horse well?” he asks, concerned. 

“He will be, I believe,” Mr Malik says. “I fear he just needed a break from carrying me and all of my many bags.”

Louis nods again, placated by that. The horse will have the time of his life in their stables. Liam is very proud of how well they look after their horses.

“That is good. I was actually about to retire, but if you would like tea I would not object to staying up a little longer?” He’s feeling brave, clearly. And bored, mostly. Effie has been off visiting family for the week, so he hasn’t had anyone to natter to. 

Zayn seems to think on the offer for a moment before nodding his head once in acknowledgment. “Of course, it would be rude to refuse such an offer. I am quite parched after travelling, after all.”

Grinning, Louis shifts the book he’s holding under one arm and grabs Zayn’s with the other. “To tea!” he calls, leading them both to the parlour and asking one of the maids they bump into on the way to send a tray up.

Once in the parlour, they part and settle onto opposite settees, Louis forgoing propriety and curling his legs up onto the furniture as he often does. Zayn, in a similarly improper fashion, stretches out his long legs and leans back against the armrest.

The maid who brings the tray in doesn’t say a word about it, simply shooting Louis a knowing smile as she pours them both a cup of tea and drops a cube of sugar into Louis’ cup. 

When she has taken her leave and they have both reached for their drinks, Zayn speaks up again. 

“So, Jacob Martin is telling everyone in London that you rejected his proposal,” he says over the rim of his cup, a self-satisfied smile on his face. The gossip.

Louis groans dramatically into his own cup. “I barely spoke to the man! I certainly did not receive a proposal, but if he was rejected by Liam then I for once cannot fault my brother for that. Is he being very rude about it?” he asks, frowning. 

He does not need his already barely-existent reputation to be tarnished before he finds a man. 

“No, he merely acted like he was heartbroken for a few days, implied that you led him on, and then very suddenly shut up about it,” Zayn shrugs. “He’s an arse. I wouldn’t worry about it, I doubt anyone believed him.” 

Louis wonders what shut him up. He wonders what made him ask for his hand in the first place, if he even did. Did Louis lead him on? He’s almost sure he didn’t, but then again he is terribly unaware of himself at the best of times. Maybe he was flirting more than he thought, or was far too good at pretending to be interested in his boring hunting talk.

Maybe Jacob Martin is just a bit of a prick. 

He dreads to think of a life where he did marry someone like that. He’s handsome, sure, but it took all of two conversations with the man for Louis to realise just how boring he is once you get past the cocky charm.

“I fear I may never marry, if all men are like that,” Louis half-jokes. 

Zayn throws him a look of mock-offence in response. “Excuse you!” He jokes, laughing. “I’m wonderful.”

Louis shakes his head fondly, taking another sip of tea. “You aren’t offering to marry me, unless I missed another proposal?” he teases.

Zayn smiles then, charming and predatory and just a little bit sad. “Darling Louis, I would propose to you right this instance if I thought you would be happy with me,” he tells him, somehow both teasing and serious.

“Would I not?” Louis asks, confused. He’s sure that out of all the men he’s met, a marriage with Zayn would be the most agreeable to him. Perhaps almost all. 

Zayn shakes his head, a soft no. “You are too lovely, and I am too free. You need someone willing to stay, and I need someone willing to leave. England cannot contain me forever, I am afraid.” 

It is true, Louis supposes, though he can’t quite understand why it sounds so sad. His thoughts, unbidden, turn to Harry. Would Harry sound the same, talking about the idea of them marrying? Would it be unthinkable to him? If Louis cared less about Harry’s hypothetical thoughts, would he care more about the idea of Zayn wanting, in some capacity, to marry him?

He is a fool. He should not care what Harry thinks. He should not be thinking of Harry, at all. He has a higher chance of marrying Mr Jacob bloody Martin. 

Lost in his errant thoughts, Louis accidentally leaves too much of a pause in the conversation. 

Zayn speaks up again. “I apologise, if that was too much,” he says earnestly. 

Louis jolts, blinking away the image of Harry trying so hard to settle in his brain. “Not at all,” he blurts out, a second too late. “It was a shock, is all. I did not know you had thought about me in that way. Have you? Or am I reading things wrong? I do that often.” 

It’s a brave question, one he did not expect to ask. The night makes him brave it seems. Or foolish.

“I have,” Zayn replies. “I do not think it some great love, but I do believe if I thought on it hard enough I would find feelings there. I tend not to, knowing that it could not work. I believe your heart is firmly with another, is it not?”

Sighing, Louis shrugs. “I do not know. I think, like you, it could be, if I thought on it. It does not make sense though. I have spent more time with you than I have this person in recent years. You are handsome, funny, and kind. Why shouldn’t it be you? I do not want to pine for someone who I don't even know, who does not know me as I am now.”

Zayn smiles, heartbreakingly handsome. “Love is often inconvenient, I’ve found. I think you should get to know him, if your heart calls for it,” he tells him, and Louis doesn’t feel he deserves the reassurance. “I have no doubt he will love you as you are.”

It strikes him then, that Zayn does. Zayn, who has witnessed him in all his foolish glory and impropriety and the general mess of a human that he is, and still feels something for him, whatever that may be. As painful as it feels to him, not being able to return those feelings as Zayn deserves, it does give him hope. Louis is not, as he has always thought in some deep, unreachable part of him, unloveable. Someone can see him and know him and like him anyway. 

Suddenly, perhaps inappropriately, he grins. “You are the best of men, Zayn Malik,” he states, meaning it wholeheartedly. “You will write to me, when you find them? The one willing to leave with you?”

Zayn grins back, lifting his tea cup in a promise. “I will write to you before then, and often after.”

Louis lifts his own in return. “And I will beat you at lawn bowls tomorrow,” he promises.

Both of them finish their teas and then Louis, despite yawning, pours them both another. 

They talk long into the night, until Zayn almost falls asleep where he lounges. They talk still after that, until eventually a tired, grumpy Mrs Cooper finds them, shooing them out of the parlour and to bed with threats of waking Liam up. 

Parting in the corridor, Zayn bids Louis goodnight with a quick, almost ghost of a kiss on the cheek. 

Louis feels nothing but warmth, glad that their friendship will remain intact. If his mind strays to Harry again when he finally collapses into bed, nobody is around to witness it.

It’s another warm day, the sun beating down onto the grounds of Rosewood Hall with little reprieve. 

Louis, much to his chagrin, finds himself forced out into the heat without the safe haven of the shade to save him this time. Georgiana sits under their usual tree alone, smug, as Louis, Zayn and Liam prepare themselves for the game to start. 

Quite frankly, Louis does not want to play. He’s been irritable all morning, thanks to an early start and therefore very little sleep. Zayn is suffering the same fate, though he’s handling it with a lot more grace and cheer. Liam is his usual self. Annoyingly cheerful, yet thankfully oblivious to his brother’s late night talk with his friend. Louis is sure he would not be able to handle the aftermath of that getting out, not when he’s ready to fall asleep where he stands. 

They’re about to start playing, Liam about to bowl the jack out onto the lawn, when a footman coughs his arrival to the side of him. Liam frowns, dropping his arm and turning to the man. “Is something wrong?” he asks, concerned.

The footman shifts a little, clearly uncomfortable, before leaning in to whisper something that has Liam frown turning deeper. 

“Oh, no I was not aware. Send him out here and then send someone to set up his usual room. Tell Mrs Cooper I apologise for the inconvenience,” he says, flicking a look towards Louis that is entirely unreadable. The footman nods, scurrying off.

“Who is it, brother? Is something wrong?” Louis asks, sharing a confused glance with Zayn. 

Liam plasters on a smile that may not be completely genuine, shaking his head. “Nothing wrong! It seems we have a surprise guest,” he says, looking towards the manor.

“Who?” Louis asks. Nobody ever really drops by without sending word first, it’s generally just not done. “Is it not a bit rude of whoever it is, to just turn up without warning? Is it one of the tenants? Or a cousin, perhaps?” 

He’s babbling again. Mainly because he had not mentally prepared himself for another guest. These things take a lot of emotional labour, he can’t just cope with a new person without warning like this. 

Liam shakes his head again, well versed in Louis’ ways. “It’s Harry,” he answers. He doesn’t sound particularly happy about it, but he doesn’t sound as if he’s particularly upset either.

Louis doesn’t have time to think about how he feels about that news, because before he can even process the words, the man himself is striding his way towards them. Harry is, as he seems to be these days, all cocky grace and flowing hair and strong fucking shoulders that are straining against the white shirt he’s wearing. There’s a great big smile on his face too, one that doesn’t lessen once as he dives towards Liam to clasp him round the shoulders.

“Harry!” Liam exclaims, slightly winded by the hug. “What on earth are you doing here?” 

With a few hard claps on the back, Harry lets Liam go and pulls back, still grinning but perhaps a bit less maniacally. “I heard in passing that Mr Malik here was stopping by for a game or two, and I just thought to myself—why not join him? London is ever so boring these days, Liam, I’ve been back a few weeks and I am already quite done with the whole thing. You don’t mind, do you, old friend?” 

Even to Louis’ socially inept ear, it sounds like the kind of question that you cannot just simply say no to. Harry has Liam backed into a corner, in his own house. 

Shaking his head with a smile that is slightly tighter now than it was a moment ago, Liam speaks up. “The more the merrier, I say,” he says agreeably. “Though for the sake of my staff, you could have sent word,” he adds, still keeping his tone light.

Harry nods at that, looking actually apologetic. “Of course, I do apologise for that. It was—perhaps—rather a snap decision on my part,” he agrees. 

“No harm done,” Liam brushes it off, though all three of them know that Mrs Cooper will not be best pleased. She has always been rather strict, and loathes having to organise things on short notice. 

Apparently pleased with the approval, Harry moves his attention away from Liam, passes right over Louis who is standing right there, and zeroes in on Zayn. Another look that Louis can’t read—there seems to be many of those today—passes over his face and he moves past Louis to reach out a hand that Zayn takes and shakes tightly, amicably. 

“Mr Malik,” he greets. 

Zayn smiles in reply, unphased by whatever is taking place here. “Lord Styles.” 

Now with no other choice but to acknowledge Louis or be unspeakably rude, Harry finally turns to him. The handsome face softens immediately; a smaller, more genuine, smile finding its way onto it. “Louis,” he starts, that ridiculous voice doing things to Louis’ insides that it absolutely should not be doing. “I am sorry I missed you, before I left the other week. I had wished to say goodbye, but Liam said your illness was quite strong. You look well, I trust you have made a full recovery?” 

He looks, and sounds, truthfully very concerned. There’s the sweetest little crease between his full brows, and Louis has to fight not to reach up to smooth it over.

“I am very well now, thank you, Lord Styles. No need to apologise. I was quite ill, it would not have been a pleasant sight, I assure you,” Louis lies, smiling through it. 

The crease eases on its own as Harry nods in acknowledgment. “I would not have minded, I am sure. I am very glad to hear that you are well, in any case. Are you playing today?” 

Louis nods. “I am. Mr Malik here insisted, and I could not find myself able to say no to such a man,” he laughs, bringing Zayn into their confusing little conversation with a hand on his arm. 

“I am very persuasive,” Zayn teases, flashing his winning smile at Louis. 

Harry, Louis notes as he witnesses the brief flash of displeasure that crosses his face, does not look happy. The look disappears as quickly as it came and he quickly plasters on a polite smile. “Should we play, then?” 

“Yes, let’s,” Liam pipes up, a hard edge to his voice. Louis had honestly forgotten he had been standing there, which really makes all of this ten times more embarrassing.

“There are four of us, shall we play in pairs?” Zayn asks. 

Louis doesn’t have a chance to object to that before Liam is nodding, looking between them all for a moment before clasping Harry’s shoulder. “I’ll take Harry,” Liam says, grinning. 

Harry shrugs. “That is more than fine with me.”

It’s a terrible tactical decision, Louis thinks. Louis and Zayn are both the most likely to win, if he does say so himself. Louis has all the stubbornness of someone who won’t go down without a fight, at least when it comes to competition, and Zayn is a natural at this particular game. 

Liam chose Harry specifically to keep him away from Louis, he thinks. 

His loss. Louis will just have to make absolutely sure that he and Zayn beat them. 

Grinning, Louis links arms with a similarly cheery Zayn. “Shall we?” 

“Oh, absolutely,” Zayn replies, both of them ignoring Harry and Liam in favour of grabbing their shiny, black bowls from the box. The others will take the brown ones. 

“You bowl the jack, Liam!” Louis calls out as he bends over the box. The jack is a small white ball that serves as the basis for the entire game. Louis hates being the one to bowl it, always so worried about throwing it off centre and having to go and fix it. It’s embarrassing, really.

In the end, it takes them five minutes to get everything ready. And then it’s time to play.

Louis isn’t so fond of the intricacies of the game. He knows enough to know how to win and what is cheating, but other than that his knowledge boils down to this: the aim of the game is to have more of your bowls close to the jack at the end of the game than the other person does, essentially. You can hit the jack with your bowls and push it away from others, but they can do the same to you. It’s tactics, really, more than anything else.

It’s also hard on the arms. Or maybe Louis is weak. 

The jack is in place, a good ways down the lawn and centred with the place they have to stand to bowl. Harry steps up to bowl first, rolling it towards the jack. It stops just past it, a pretty good first bowl.

Zayn goes next, his landing right beside Harry’s, further away from the jack than his. Liam’s bowl is terrible, going so far off that it leaves the bounds of the game and no longer counts. All of them laugh, even Liam himself.

Louis steps up to take his first turn. Rearing his arm back and taking a step forward, he bowls. The ball rolls towards the jack, smacking straight into it and pushing it further away from Harry’s. Louis jumps up, whooping. “Ha!” he exclaims, spinning around and grinning at the other boys. “The game has started, gentleman.” 

It continues like that, each person taking a turn to bowl until there are no balls left. Then, it’s time to count. There are two of Zayn and Louis’ bowls closer to the jack than the closest of the other team’s, which means that they have won. Both of them being absolutely terrible sportsmen, they cheer loudly and gloat excessively. 

They play a few more rounds, because the sun is high and the thrill of winning tastes too good to stop now. Zayn and Louis win again the second time, thanks to Zayn blasting one of Harry’s bowls out of the bounds of the game. The third time, Liam and Harry win on a technicality. That technicality being Louis throwing terribly when he notices Harry rolling his sleeves up. 

Zayn isn’t terribly happy about that one, but he shoots Louis a knowing smirk and proceeds to be just a little more touchy with Louis during the next round. 

Harry and Liam lose again. Badly. Liam, for once, plays well. Harry, however, is barely looking when he bowls; too busy casting glances at Louis. Louis, who’s having the time of his life letting Zayn flirt with him so they can win. Zayn doesn’t seem to mind. Liam is oblivious, too focussed on the game and being annoyed at Harry for his throws than to take notice of exactly why he is messing up so badly. 

Louis, beyond simply enjoying himself, is a little confused as to why Zayn’s actions are bothering Harry at all. Perhaps the future duke is a lot like his brother, after all, and is simply worried for Louis’ innocence. As if he isn’t a twenty two year old man who has a pretty solid grasp on protecting his own innocence. An innocence that is in no danger of being tainted by Zayn, who may feel something for him but has no wish to act upon it. 

They are just having fun. And winning. The winning part is most important, after all. 

After that particularly awful loss, Liam finally puts his foot down. “If I play another round, I may end up murdering my oldest friend,” he jokes, or at least Louis thinks it’s a joke, starting to collect all the bowls from the lawn. 

“A good time to call it, I agree,” Harry nods, throwing another glance towards Louis and Zayn before following after Liam. 

Louis, who is now flopping himself down onto the grass, pulling Zayn down to sit beside him, grins over at the losers. “Regretting joining in now, Lord Styles?” he teases, shielding his eyes from the sun as he watches the others clear up. 

Georgiana is long gone, having returned inside sometime

during the second round. He would be bothering her by now, if she were still out here. 

“Not at all,” Harry says. “I am, however, regretting agreeing to be on Liam’s team, when clearly the talent lies with you and Mr Malik.” 

Muttering something about not being the one who lost them the game, Liam otherwise does not respond to that. 

“Zayn is wonderful,” Louis agrees, ignoring the praise for himself. “There was a time, a few years ago, where he beat every one of us, in every round, for at least six games. It might have even been more. Even Georgiana could not best him, and she is quite the beast when she can be persuaded to play.” 

Zayn, now leaning back on his arms beside Louis and soaking up the afternoon sun, laughs. “It wasn’t that impressive, but I will take your flattery all the same. You, dear Louis, are the only one I would wish to team with.”

Louis turns to grin down at him, picking a few blades of grass and dropping them onto his pristine white shirt. “Why thank you,” he says with a wink. 

A cough sounds from above them, and both of them turn and look up to see Harry standing there, holding the wooden box filled with the game’s equipment. Louis squints against the sun to see him properly. “I’m sure you’re both quite wonderful,” Harry says, almost bitterly. “Are either of you going to help? Zayn?” He turns towards Zayn, eyes intense and seemingly urging him to get up.

Shrugging, Zayn looks around pointedly. “It looks like you and Liam have handled everything spectacularly. I think Louis and I will continue enjoying the weather—Unless there was something else you needed?” 

Zayn is playing the part of nonchalant almost too well, and Louis is enjoying it far too much. He may not understand exactly what is going on, but that does not matter.

Before Harry can respond, and it certainly looks like he wants to, Liam comes up beside him and clasps him on the back. “Help me bring this to the shed and then I’ll send for refreshments, yes? Louis—“ He turns to Louis, smiling. “You can entertain Zayn for a few moments, yes?”

“Absolutely,” he replies quickly, not missing the put out look on Harry’s face. This is too interesting.

He will have to ask Zayn what is happening.

A cheerful Liam and a grumpy Harry scuttle off about their business and before they are even out of sight, Louis turns to the smirking man. 

The man in question is already looking at him, as if waiting for whatever question is coming. His skin glows beautifully in the light, every inch of him perfect, and Louis once again feels a regretful pang in his chest at not being able to return the feelings he once, secretly, wished for. If he could just love Zayn, he would not have to worry about anything.

“What is happening?” Louis asks, pushing the other thoughts aside. “I know I am largely quite stupid when it comes to other people and their inner workings but I cannot figure out just what is wrong with that man. He looks as if he wishes you dead, but he was perfectly fine with you when he arrived.”

Zayn’s grin widens. “I think perhaps it is not my place to tell you, but I would not worry your pretty little head about it.” 

“Not your place? What does that mean?” 

“If you do not see it yourself, I cannot be the one to tell you,” Zayn says, doing a terrible job at clearing anything up. “Just think of it like this—why would it trouble Lord Styles to see me close to you? To see you laughing at my jokes and me touching you in the casual ways he is not allowed to?”

And Louis does think about it, but he cannot come to a conclusion that makes any logical sense. Because Harry having any sort of feeling for him that would result in him being jealous is laughable. The man hasn’t seen him for years and their interactions before their forced separation by Liam were nothing but friendly. He does not believe that he could have caught the Lord’s eye in one weekend, not when he is so picky that not one man or woman in London can please him.

So he shakes his head at Zayn, shaking the absurd thought of it away. “Maybe he sees me in a brotherly way, and is simply doing what Liam does and is being overprotective?” Louis intends for it to come out as more of a statement than a question, but it doesn’t land that way. “I don’t know, Zayn. It does not make sense to me for it to be anything else.” 

“I think it makes perfect sense,” Zayn says, giving up on leaning on his arms and just flopping back onto the grass. “You think too low of yourself to see it, but every man that spends five minutes in your presence falls at least a little bit in love with you. We both know that I can attest to that. Why would he not?”

Louis lays down to mirror his position, staring up at the sky now that the sun has made its way behind a cloud for the time being. “I think maybe your misguided feelings have blinded you to reality,” Louis says quietly. “And in any case, it does not matter. Liam has expressly forbidden it.”

“You and Harry?” Zayn asks.

“Mm,” Louis hums in affirmation. “That weekend, he pulled me aside and told me that I cannot pursue Harry. I was only speaking with him how I have always spoken with him, so I do not know why he felt the need to say that, but he did. So none of this matters, because I cannot go against my brother.”

Zayn makes a little noise of acknowledgement and Louis would turn his head to assess the look on his face if he had any energy to do so. 

Off in the not too far distance, he hears the sound of Liam and Harry’s friendly chatting as they make their way back to them. Louis doesn’t make any effort to move to welcome them back and neither does Zayn, both of them content to lay in the grass ruining their expensive clothing. He closes his eyes as the sun makes itself known again, right as someone sits down next to him, close enough that he feels if he just moved his arm the slightest bit, he could touch them.

It’s not Liam. He knows that because Liam smells different, more earthy, whereas this person smells like spice and vanilla and warmth.

“Hello, Harry,” Louis says, not opening his eyes. “That was quick.”

“I’m not interrupting your sunbathing, am I?” He asks, and though Louis knew he was close, hearing his voice so near only highlights that. 

“No, not at all. You are welcome to join,” he replies, smiling in the direction of Harry without allowing the sun to blind him.

He hears Zayn get up then on the other side of him, hears him walk away and then hears the sound of him and Liam talking, their voices moving further away. He and Harry are alone, or as alone as you can be when your brother is still very much in the same space as you, just not close enough to overhear or interrupt.

It’s dangerous. Not only because at some point Liam will notice them talking and throw a fit because of whatever hangup he has, but because Louis cannot seem to spend two minutes in Harry’s presence without becoming a fool. 

There’s a shuffle as Harry lays down beside him, a small sigh coming from the man as he does. 

“It is rather warm,” Harry comments, talking quietly; almost whispering.

“Quite,” Louis agrees, keeping his voice at the same volume. Then, because he’s feeling brave and he might not get another moment alone to ask. “Why did you come, really?”

Harry doesn’t answer for a moment, taking a deep breath as he hears the question. “I do not know, truthfully. I—there was an incident with Jacob Martin. I wanted to see you, to make sure you were okay. I did not know if any letter I sent would be given to you.”

Louis opens his eyes then, to turn to look at him. He’s looking back, guilty. “What incident?” Louis asks.

The guilt stays. Louis is on edge, wondering what he might have done. “He was calling you a heartbreaker to anyone who would listen, telling them you led him to believe you wanted to be with him and then dropped him. I felt compelled to protect your honour,” he explains, holding Louis’ gaze intently.

“Oh,” is all Louis can say to that. 

“I apologise,” Harry says, and it feels genuine. “I was not thinking, but I cannot say I would not do the same again. That man is a pig who had no business tarnishing your name, I could not allow it. If it makes you feel better, I pulled my punch.”

Louis stops breathing. “You hit him?” he breathes, fighting not to shout the words. 

Harry grins then, the guilt melting away to make way for pure cockiness. “Not as hard as I could have.”

“Harry , you can’t just go around punching people! What if he tells someone? What will they think?” 

“What does it matter?” Harry counters immediately. Their conversation feels wrong, in their peaceful positions, like they should be standing up and pacing instead. 

“You might find it hard to find a wife if there are rumours flying around about you punching men to defend another’s honour,” Louis points out, trying not to sound bitter about it. 

“You assume I care at all about finding a wife,” Harry scoffs. “And even if I did, I would not wish to marry someone who would be deterred by me caring for you.”

That shuts Louis up for a moment. It’s a lot of information in a few words, and yet only serves to confuse him more. 

“I do not understand you,” Louis says, and he’s sure he’ll later blame it on the heat getting to him. Nothing else could make him so brazen.

Harry reacts exactly how Louis expects him to react, eyes widening just slightly in thinly veiled surprise. “I do not need you to,” he replies, assuring. “I can only hope that one day you will. Can you forgive me, at least, for what I did?”

“You do not need nor want my forgiveness, Harry. You said yourself you would do it again,” Louis answers, shaking his head softly in disbelief. What is wrong with this man?

“Whether or not I would do it again has no effect on me wishing for your forgiveness, Louis. I am quite willing to get on my knees, right here in front of your brother and Mr Malik and even Georgiana—if you wish to call her out—and beg for your forgiveness,” he says, like it’s a promise. Louis thinks it might be. He’s almost sure that if he asked him to, he would be up and on his knees before Louis could blink. 

“But why?” Louis asks. It feels like all he’s doing is asking questions. 

“I do not like seeing that look on your face,” Harry says.

“What look?”

“The slight downturn of your mouth, the fascinating little crease between your brow, the distressed look in your eye. I have flustered you, and not in the ways I would wish to fluster someone. I cannot regret my actions, but I can feel remorse that they led to you feeling in any way discomforted by me,” he explains. Louis feels naked and open, having Harry’s eyes roam over his face, cataloguing the intricacies of his expression. That feeling must show, because Harry frowns. “See, I have done it again. I keep upsetting you.”

Louis shakes his head, not wanting Harry to think that for a moment more. “It is not you. I am just—I do not quite,” he can’t find the words. “I am confused, about many things, and I feel like with every thing I learn about the people around me, I only become more confused. I do not understand Liam or his actions. There are many things I do not understand about you. Mr Martin—he did all that, to gain what? Even Zayn, even he confuses me, and he is the only man I have ever met who hides nothing from me.”

It doesn’t make sense, he knows. Harry won’t understand him. Nobody ever truly does. Louis doesn’t, himself.

Harry does not look like he might laugh at him, which is a good sign. He maintains eye contact, nodding seriously. Then, he smiles the slightest bit. “How about a deal?” 

“A deal?” Louis repeats, questioning.

Harry smiles in full this time. “A deal.” He sits up then, gesturing for Louis to do the same. Louis does, looking around and noting that Liam and Zayn are still talking closer to the house, not paying them any attention, before he turns his own attention back to Harry, who looks a lot more cheery now than he did a moment ago. The man in question opens his mouth again to continue his thought process, “If you forgive me for my transgressions, I will answer any question you ask of me.”

“Transgressions? Are there more than one?” Louis asks.

Harry grins. “There are many , but I will not speak of most of them.” 

Louis decides, for once, to let it go. He’s far more interested in the deal, and what that entails. He can get his answers later. “All you ask for is my forgiveness?” 

“It is all that matters to me, yes,” Harry confirms.

Louis laughs, a quick little soft sound that’s far closer to a giggle, shaking his head. “You have it, completely,” he promises. 

It’s not like he was ever really angry, not at Harry. More bewildered, unsure of why he or anyone else would do such a thing for Louis. That feeling remains, but any ill feeling he felt towards the man for it disappeared the moment he realised that Harry would truly do it again, whether that upset Louis or not, and beg for forgiveness after the fact. It warms something deep inside of him, the knowledge that Harry would risk no longer having Louis in his life to protect him, even when the threat is not truly that great. 

The look of relief on Harry’s face only bolsters his stance. 

“Thank you,” Harry says, barely able to contain his smile. 

“Now, a question?” 

“Eager,” Harry laughs. “Yes, you can ask me one question. Anything, and I will answer truthfully. No games, no evading.”

Louis would like to say he thinks on it for a while, weighing up what matters the most to him, but if he’s being honest it takes him all of five seconds to realise what he really, truly, needs to know. 

If he thought about it for longer, he would find himself embarrassed by even thinking of asking such a question, but he does not, and so he isn’t. It comes out easily, quickly and without another thought. 

“Why have you avoided finding a wife, or a husband, for all these years?“ Louis asks.

It shocks him, after the fact. It shocks Harry too, who’s face shutters down for a moment before he can gather himself. 

“Nobody has ever interested me,” he answers, almost too quickly. “I have had— dalliances— but I have never felt anything for any of the options thrust upon me.”

Louis does not want to think of Harry having dalliances, a sharp pang of jealousy he has no right to feel stabbing him in the heart when he hears it. It does not soothe him to know that they meant nothing, that nobody has ever meant anything. It only really serves to further his conclusion that Harry could never feel anything for him that isn’t friendly, or worse, brotherly. 

As much as he does not want to hear it, it was perhaps the perfect question to ask. It means that he can once and for all lock this away, deep, deep down, and forget about it.

Perhaps then, they can resume their friendship where it was left four years ago and strengthen it. Zayn can remain a strong friend to him, pushing feelings aside, so surely Louis can do the same.

In response to Harry’s answer, hiding the emotional journey he goes on upon hearing it, Louis simply nods. “Perhaps you will find them soon, I hear love often comes when you are not looking for it. It would do you well to actually participate in courting, you know, get to know the people you’re rejecting,” Louis suggests, unable to resist the urge to take a dig at him for his rumoured rude behaviour in London.

Harry smiles at that, shrugging his assent. “I suppose you’re right. Perhaps I will try my hand at being charming, once in a while,” he says. 

“You seem plenty charming to me, Lord Styles,” Louis teases, reaching out a hand to poke his knee. “Charming enough that Liam thought you were trying to sweep me off my feet.”

“Perhaps I was,” Harry teases back, catching Louis’ hand as he goes to poke again and bringing it to his lips to press a kiss to the back of it, holding it there for a moment. 

Louis finds that he cannot breathe, noting the gentleness in which Harry’s hand holds his. Harry smiles against his hand before dropping it and only then can Louis breathe again, albeit with a lot of difficulty. He tries not to show it, laughing off Harry’s jest. “Careful, you are playing a dangerous game with my brother so close,” Louis admonishes lightly. 

The other man shrugs, cocky grin firmly in place. “I find that I do not care all that much,” he says, casting a brief glance towards Liam. “I am more concerned about what Zayn might think, given his feelings for you.”

Louis can tell that Harry thinks he has got something over him, throwing that piece of information out there as if it’s a shocking secret that Louis will thank him for telling. It thrills Louis more than it should to know that for once, he has a firm upper hand in the conversation. He knows more than Harry, and nobody can use anything against him. Not that Harry is being malicious, no. Louis does not think that is the case. 

Either way, it does not matter, because Louis already knows this. For once, he is not in the dark.

“Zayn’s feelings for me are out in the open and not returned,” Louis says, delighting in the way Harry’s smug grin drops. “I assure you that we remain wonderful friends, and if anyone were to try to charm me with any real intentions, he would happily encourage that. Neither you nor Liam need to be so protective, when it comes to him.”

“Oh,” Harry says, frowning. “And yet you still flirt with him?”

Louis laughs, shaking his head. “I do not see being friendly as flirting, Lord Styles. If I were truly flirting, I am sure you would know the difference.”

Louis stands then, heaving himself off the ground with a surprising amount of grace, for him, and dusting the grass off his clothes as best he can. 

Harry remains on the floor, frowning up at him as if trying to pry him apart and decipher him. It is nice, for once, to not be the confused party.

“Why do you keep calling me Lord Styles? Surely our history does not call for such formalities,” Harry asks.

Grinning, Louis answers. “Perhaps I like the way it sounds. Or, perhaps, I enjoy the way it flusters you.”

Before Harry can refute that claim, Louis is walking away. Not running, for the first time in a long time, but simply walking away, pleased with the way the conversation has gone. 

Harry watches him go, remaining seated for a long time before he finally gets up to join Liam and Zayn, thoughts firmly on the enigma that is Louis Tomlinson.

Once out of sight of Harry and the other men, Louis does run.

Or rather, walks with impressive speed, searching the house for the one person he knows will allow him to sort through the mess of thoughts and feelings that are slowly untangling inside his head. 

He finds her in Liam’s study, sitting behind the desk penning something onto a piece of paper without haste. Every window in the room is wide open, sunlight lighting every inch of the room and a gentle breeze wafting through, ruffling the papers stacked on one side of the desk. Georgiana has not noticed him, too focused on whatever she is doing.

She looks beautiful, like this. She always has been, but Louis finds that since learning of her pregnancy only a few days ago, he has noticed the glow that everyone says seems to surround women when they are with child. In the sunlight, it is only more prominent. 

Louis sits himself in one of the big, wingback chairs facing the desk. “I think I have feelings for Harry,” he says by way of a greeting.

Georgiana snaps her head up, a loose strand of fiery red hair slipping from her hastily shoved up hair. “Louis,” she says, both a greeting and a warning. “Do you wish to repeat that?”

“I do not,” he says simply. “You did hear it, though, did you not?”

“I did.”

“And? Do you not have anything to say to that?” he asks. He finds he is not as nervous about her reaction as he thought he would be. While she may be married to him, she is decidedly not Liam.

She puts her pen down, sighing, and leans back in Liam’s chair. “You are going to bring forth a migraine, little one.”

Louis smiles at that, fond and tired. “I can leave, if you like? I am more than happy to pretend I never uttered a word, if you will do me the kindness of doing the same,” he offers, knowing she will not take it. 

He came to the one person in this house who values information over anything, especially information on people. Information that few else are privy to.

“No, no,” she says, quickly. “It’s out there now, you may as well continue. Feelings for Harry, you say?”

Louis nods. “I believe so.”

“How long?” she asks.

“Longer than I would care to admit,” he answers. “I do not think what I felt as a child can be construed as real feelings, more as simply a childhood crush on the only available, near-constant presence that was not either my brother or a member of the household staff. Now, I fear it is manifesting in a real way, if the pain in my heart upon thinking of him is any indication.” 

Georgiana softens as he speaks, a pitying haze taking over her entire expression. Louis does not like it. “Oh, Louis,” she says, sadly. “I thought this might happen, though I wished it would not be with him.”

“What do you mean?”

She is silent for a moment, then shakes her head, as if dispelling a thought. “I only mean that Harry is perhaps not the best choice. Not with Liam being… the way he is.”

“Did you know?” Louis asks, suddenly overwhelmed by the thought of it. “About the letters, the invitations that I was told did not extend to me? You must have known, Harry said he asked after me every time. You were always there when Liam told me I was not invited. Oh, Georgiana,” he breathes out her name, betrayed. He has answered his own question, he should have known. He is a fool. “Why?”

If there is one positive thing he can say about her at this moment, it is that she has the decency to look upset. Guilty. “I agreed with him,” she says, quietly, as if her speaking it in a hushed tone will minimise the impact of what she is saying. 

“You agreed with him? That I should be excluded? Made to think that my presence was not wanted by someone I admired as a friend?” Louis tries for anger but everything comes out sad, hurt. 

“You must know, it wasn’t like that, little one, I promise. We only wished to protect you, we thought that this might happen. Harry is—he’s charming, and wonderful, but he does not love in the way that you do. He is my friend, and I hesitate to call him a rake, but—“

“Then don’t,” Louis interrupts, now finding that anger comes all too easily. “He punched Mr Martin, you know? Because he was slandering my name to anyone who would listen. Would a rake do that? Would a rake care about the public opinion of someone like me, who spends no time in London and will likely never feel the effects of people's feelings towards me?”

Georgiana only looks more pitying at that. “Louis, sweet, lovely, innocent, Louis,” she breathes and Louis can’t take the patronising tone, feels himself ready to dive out of the chair and run. He has made a mistake, coming here. It seems Georgiana is not the safe space he thought her to be, not when it comes to this. “You will do best to be done with this line of thinking. You do not want a man that has lain with half of the working women in London, a man who cannot settle down, either for his duty or for love.”

Louis shakes his head, a disbelieving scoff finding its way out no matter how rude it might be. “I did not come here to tell you I wished to pursue him, I only thought you might help me with these feelings that I do not understand. But it seems you are just like my brother, who cannot allow me to think for myself long enough to listen to what I have to say.” She looks like she might cry but Louis finds that he cannot stop. “I thought you my greatest ally in this house, Georgiana. I believe I might have been wrong.”

“You were not wrong,” she says, pleading. Her voice wobbles, her chin wobbling with it. “I wish you could see what we see, could see how delicate and precious you are. I am sorry, I am, truly, for causing you to doubt my love for you. You are my brother in more than just marriage and I only wish for you to be the happiest you can be in life, with someone who can love you in the way you deserve,” she continues, a tear slipping down her freckled face as she finishes. 

And Louis understands, in some ways. He understands that he is different, that he is quiet and naive and does not see or interact with the world in the way that everyone else does. He understands that Liam, and by extension Georgiana, were left with the task of protecting him from harm. He understands that and yet, he can’t quite find it in himself, in this moment, to accept it. 

If it were just Harry, perhaps he would understand. If this betrayal were not simply added to years and years of Louis being excluded from the life he should be living, perhaps he could forgive it. But that is the way it is. He has never once been allowed to make a choice for himself. Nobody has ever sat him down, given him every option and told him everything he needs to know, and then asked him what he wants. Instead, he has been forced to accept that everyone else just knows better. Everyone else is allowed to make the decisions that affect his life. 

He cannot abide by that any longer. 

“I do not intend to pursue Harry,” he says, suddenly calm in his new resolution. “But not because you, or my brother, or anyone else who thinks they have any say in my life says so. I will not pursue him because I know he feels nothing for me.” He sits forward, steadfastly ignoring her increasingly rapidly falling tears. “I will, however, be living life as I choose from now on. I will pursue whoever I want, whether Liam grants his approval or not. You can pass that message along to him, if you so wish. I only ask that you do not tell him of my feelings for Harry, for the sake of their friendship.”

Georgiana nods, finally listening to him for what feels like the first time in this short, painful conversation. 

“Louis, I am—“ she starts, moving forward in her seat as if to come towards him, though she cannot reach him with the desk in between them.

“I cannot hear it,” Louis stops her, standing up from the chair. “Not today. I need time to think on things.”

“Okay,” she says, defeated. She reaches up with shaking hands to wipe away her tears and Louis almost cracks, almost crosses the desk just to give her a hug, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he walks out. Calmly, resolutely. 

He does not feel any lighter than when he walked in. 

Dinner that night is quiet. 

Louis, following a day in the sun and a few emotionally draining, potentially life-changing, conversations, does not feel much like talking. Liam, who must have been filled in on Louis’ demand for freedom but seems to think better on saying a word about it, is similarly quiet, albeit throwing Louis disapproving looks whenever he can.

Zayn and Harry, the only two unaffected by the events of the day, try to keep up conversation between them. It’s not terribly successful, given that they still have some confusing, teasing animosity that Louis does not understand, but it fills the silences well enough. 

Georgiana is not there. Louis tries not to feel bad about that and fails miserably. 

Most of the meal is spent, for him, tuning out the low noise in the room and thinking. He thinks, perhaps too much, about Harry, and how he will likely never see him again once he leaves Rosewood Hall this time. There is little reason for him to come back, even less reason for Liam to invite him back and almost no reason for Harry to ever invite Louis to his home. 

They are friends, Louis believes. Louis does not, however, believe that if Liam forbade the friendship, Harry would fight very hard to change his mind. 

In connection to that line of thought, Louis thinks of the freedom he seeks and if Liam will grant him it.

He does not seem to be fighting it now, with company as a shield, but will that courtesy extend once the men are gone? Or will he put his foot down then, and tell Louis what he has always been so afraid of hearing spoken in words; that Liam can stop him from choosing his own path. And will. That scares him more than he can express, even if it would not be all that surprising. He has not chosen his path thus far, so why would he be allowed now?

As the dinner progresses, and Louis’ thoughts spiral further, it feels less and less likely to him that Liam will loosen the leash at all. And it’s not like Louis can push too hard, not without renouncing the family name. That thought frightens him more than anything, because as much as he may find power and status distasteful, he cannot imagine a life without the privileges he has been raised with. A life where the people he knows and loves will no longer be able to treat him the same way. He would have to work. It feels a silly thing to worry about, and he knows it is, but his upbringing did not come with classes on how to live on meager earnings, or even how to earn anything at all.

Louis fears that no matter how brave he manages to be, he will always find himself running back to Liam, begging for forgiveness.

It is a hard thought to contend with, and not one best thought whilst trying to get through dinner without embarrassing himself, or crying into his lamb shank like a child that has been scolded for playing with his food. So, Louis shuts the thoughts off as best he can and attempts to tune back into the conversation.

“I was not overly fond of France,” Harry is saying, Zayn looking scandalised by the mere prospect. “The food did not live up to expectations and the people were rude, I found.”

Louis has no clue what they’re talking about or how the conversation progressed to lead them to discussing travel destinations, but he has no stake in this. The furthest he has travelled is to Brighton and even then he was too young to remember anything but the way the sea air felt against his skin. 

“You did not experience the France I did then, Lord Styles,” Zayn replies, shaking his head fondly at a memory. “A beautiful place, truly. Beautiful people too, in my experience. The women there are lovely, are they not?” he asks, and there’s a teasing edge to the question.

Knowing what he now knows, it sounds to Louis a lot like a dig at his dalliances. 

It must sound it to Harry too, because his jaw clenches for a moment, teeth gritted behind closed lips. His eyes flicker to Louis for a millisecond before he unclenches and retorts. “I did not notice,” he answers politely. 

“A shame. I think they would have been quite to your liking,” Zayn shoots back, raising his glass to his lips to hide a smirk that Louis, sitting beside him, doesn’t miss.

Liam chooses then to pipe up. Perfect timing, in Louis’ opinion. 

“Perhaps the both of you ought to focus more on the women in London,” he says, and while it has the typical Liam Cheer, it sounds almost goading. “It would be lovely to have a wedding to attend,” he adds.

Louis has to shove a piece of meat in his mouth to refrain from making a comment at that. A comment along the lines of you absolute arse, perhaps if you let me talk to a man for more than five minutes you could have a wedding to attend that you would not need to travel to. 

Zayn shakes his head, dropping the smirk and his glass and smiling politely. “I do not see that happening for me any time soon, dear friend. I am too focused on my travels.”

“Understandable,” Liam acknowledges. It’s a lot different for Zayn than it is for Liam or Harry, who have titles to think about.

Far more uncomfortable with this topic, Harry takes a rather large swig of his own wine. “I do not have the same luxury as Mr Malik,” he states, a small frown on his face. “My father grows increasingly impatient with me shirking my responsibilities, so you may just have a wedding to attend soon enough Liam. Whether it is a happy occasion, we will have to wait and see.” 

“Your father is a kind man,” Liam assures him, reaching across the table to pat his arm briefly. “He will give you time to marry for love, I am sure. In any case, I married Georgiana out of duty and look at us, we were in love before the honeymoon ended. I have faith that you can find that.”

“Georgiana is unlike any woman I’ve ever met,” Harry laughs, everyone else at the table making soft noises of agreement. “If I found someone at all like her, I am sure I would have no problems falling in love. Though, she is perhaps the slightest bit too loud for me, god love her. Maybe a quieter version of her.”

“A quieter version of the Countess?” Zayn pipes up, barely containing his grin. “Sounds an awful lot like Louis, to me.”

Liam’s awkward laugh does wonders to cover up the pained cough Zayn gives when Louis stomps on his foot under the table, eyes firmly on Harry. Harry, who does not visibly react at all to that comment, eyes flickering to Louis for a moment and then straight back to Zayn. 

Louis’ brother refutes it before Harry or Louis can speak up. “I concede that they are quite alike, but I do not believe Louis is the type of partner Harry is looking for,” Liam says, gripping his fork like he’s refraining from stabbing one of them with it. 

“Why not?” Both Louis and Harry ask at the same time. Louis somewhat offended and Harry curious. 

Liam’s eye twitches, a surefire sign that he is not enjoying this conversation in the slightest. Zayn, still reeling from

the pain in his foot, looks absolutely delighted by what he has started. Louis makes a mental note to kill him for this later.

“I did not mean to cause offense, brother,” Liam says, shaking his head. “I only meant that you do not seem well suited to me. There is also the matter of Harry’s future title—I do not wish to be rude, but I do not know that you would fare well as the husband of a Duke.”

Whether intended or not, that does offend Louis. It offends him quite greatly. He drops his cutlery as gently as he can, turning his entire body towards Liam at the head of the table. “Excuse me? What does that mean?”

“I did not—it does not matter, does it? It won’t be happening, so there is no use discussing this. Finish your dinner,” Liam dismisses him. It is the wrong move, especially when Louis is already so riled up from the events of the day. He finds that he does not care if he embarrasses Liam by making a scene in front of his friends, not when his brother just insulted him like this.

“Surely whoever I marry, they will have a household I will have to help run? I would like to know what you find so lacking about me that means I will not be able to fulfill my duties in a marriage, brother,” Louis bites out, voice as cold as his food will inevitably turn when he cannot finish it due to anger. 

“I too would like to know actually, Liam,” Harry speaks up, voice not quite as hard as Louis’ but still somewhat unfriendly. “It is quite the thing to say about your own brother, especially in front of company.” 

Liam goes red, either from embarrassment or anger Louis can’t tell. He shakes his head, dropping his own cutlery and taking a swig of wine. 

“Louis, please,” he says, pleading. “We can talk about this later. In private.”

“No,” Louis replies simply. 

A hand touches his back, gently, out of view of Liam and out of Harry’s line of sight if he doesn’t turn his head to look. Zayn is reassuring him, silently offering his support. 

Liam is one breath away from losing his temper. Louis has not seen it often, as hotheaded as his brother can be, but he knows the signs well. He’s shaking, just slightly, where his fist is clenched upon the table cloth. His breathing has increased, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He won’t shout, Louis doesn’t think, but he may say something he regrets. Something Louis will not forgive, not for a long time. 

Louis wishes Georgiana were here. This conversation never would have happened if she were. She’s an expert at calming them both down, usually. 

“You are not fit to run a household,” Liam says then, suddenly. “You are too quiet, too improper. I don’t believe you could handle the staff in the way they need to be handled to do their jobs correctly, nor do I think you could handle the social parts of being married to someone like Harry, or any other person with a title and a reputation. Could you host? Could you handle an entire ballroom full of people that you have to entertain? Christ, you could hardly handle a dinner with a few friends of mine.”

Louis opens his mouth to argue and finds that he cannot think of anything to say, hurt running deep in his veins. Is Liam right?

“You are a child, and I have babied you too much so perhaps that is my fault, but I keep you here because I think you would break if you spent two minutes in London. You would last even less time in a marriage, when you realise that you cannot run from any part of it you find difficult, cannot hide in Georgiana’s skirts or in the pages of a book. Marriage is hard, life is harder, and you are not prepared to enter either alone,” Liam sticks the knife in deeper, so deep that Louis cannot breathe.

He looks regretful, at least, the moment the words leave his mouth. Louis cannot see that, however, through the tears that have sprung up in his eyes and are threatening to fall any second. 

Everyone is silent, not even the sound of a fork clinking against china or a breath being taken breaking up the tense air in the room. Louis stews in the hurt he feels, in how Liam took every one of his insecurities and laid them bare on the table in front of Zayn and Harry. And it’s Louis’ fault, for not backing down, for not keeping his mouth shut and taking the insult like he was supposed to. 

Without really thinking about it, Louis shoots up from the table, shrugging off Zayn's concerned touch. 

“I am sorry, Lord Styles, Mr Malik,” is all he gets out before the tears start falling. 

“Lou,” Zayn whispers, reaching out towards him. Louis shakes his head, promptly running from the room before he can turn to look at Harry’s face and see the distaste he is sure must be there.

Liam is right. Running is what he is best at, after all.

An hour or so later, Louis finally stops crying.

His place of solace this time is the library, forgoing the comfortable settee in lieu of sitting on the floor at the back of the stacks, curled up against the shelf as if he will melt into it if he tries hard enough. 

The tears fall accompanied by gasping sobs, and then quiet whimpers, and then silence, until they stop falling all together, nothing left in him. Head hurting, he does not understand why he’s crying, exactly. Whether it’s from the embarrassment of having everything said out loud in front of two men he respects, who he wishes could respect him in turn, or if it’s because every word that was said rang so true in his brain. Perhaps both. 

Perhaps it’s that the words came from Liam, the man who despite all of their issues, he has always trusted more than anyone in the world. Who he trusted to keep his heart safe, not to tear it open in public and string it up for the world to see. 

It’s a horrible, horrible situation, and Louis doesn’t know what to do. He can’t run to Georgiana, not after today. Effie isn’t here, so he can’t find her and demand to be held until he doesn’t feel quite so awful anymore. Liam is obviously out of the question, and may never be a source of comfort for Louis again, if they can’t get past this. 

Louis is alone. Well and truly.

Until the library door opens not long after he stops crying and he’s decidedly not alone. He is, however, hiding. So he keeps quiet, holding his breath and praying that whoever it is walks right back out. 

No such luck. Heavy footfalls sound throughout the library, coming closer and closer until a body steps around the shelf Louis is hiding behind, stopping there. 

“There you are.”

It’s soft, relieved. Louis looks up at the sound of the familiar voice, both relieved that it isn’t Liam and terrified of who it actually is. Harry stands there, looking down at him with kind, worried eyes. 

“Here I am,” Louis tries to laugh, the noise coming out more like a pained scoff. He’s snotty and blotchy and he is sure his face must be puffed up awfully, and it must be far too reminiscent of the way Harry saw him all those years ago, when he was eighteen and vulnerable. 

Harry doesn’t seem to care. He comes closer, stopping a few feet away from Louis and dropping to the floor, joining him. There isn’t much room between the shelves, so they find themselves positioned awkwardly, with Louis backed into a corner and Harry sitting sideways across the space a little ways away, accidentally boxing him in with his legs. Louis shrinks in a bit more, wrapping his arms around his knees and hugging them to himself. Louis, curled up as small as can be and Harry, more open than Louis could ever be.

“He was wrong, you know?” Harry says then, still painfully soft. 

Louis laughs, a sad pitiful sound. “I don’t think he was, actually. Quite the opposite.” 

“No,” Harry doubles down. “He was wrong about all of it.”

It doesn’t help, being lied to. It doesn’t make him feel any better, he finds. Worse, even, knowing that Harry pities him so much he finds himself having to pretend he doesn’t see him the exact same way that Liam does; as a scared little boy who cannot function as a human. 

“You do not have to lie to me, Lord Styles. I am well aware of who I am, and how everyone else sees me. I think perhaps I was overdue being told straight, I cannot live in this fantasyland forever, I'm growing too old for that,” Louis says sadly. “Liam knows me better than anyone, who am I to question him?”

Harry is frowning at him like he’s a particularly difficult puzzle. “I do not see you like that,” he tells him. “Neither does Mr Malik, if it means anything to you.”

Louis shakes his head, disbelieving. “You don’t know me, Harry,” he exclaims, frustrated. “You saw me the other week, did you not? I am like that all of the time, and worse. I am incapable of conversation, and terrible at being proper in the way society dictates, and just an all round mess of a human, and if Liam can spend every day with me and see fault then I cannot disagree with him. You should not disagree with him, not for some notion of me that you have made up in your mind for whatever bizarre reason.”

“I do know you,” Harry replies. “I do. Perhaps not as well as I would like, no, but I knew all of those things about you when we were children and they did not make me think any less of you, and they still do not now. In fact, they are some of the best things about you. I would not care to know someone who is like everyone else, who is mean to those beneath them in station and only holds conversations about the weather or money or how many horses they have. It’s all so meaningless , and you are not like that, and I think that is wonderful, Louis. I really, truly, do. You are wonderful.”

The tears might come again, Louis feels, sitting here listening to these lovely words that he cannot believe. He hugs himself tighter, thunking his head against a copy of George Eliot’s Adam Bede.

“I thank you for your kind words, Lord Styles, but I cannot accept them.” 

“Harry,” Harry corrects. “Call me Harry, here. Please.”

“Why?” Louis asks. 

“I find that it has never sounded more beautiful than it does coming from your lips,” he answers. 

Louis’ heart stutters. Though he knows it must be a joke, he cannot help the way it makes him blush, his cheeks reddening for reasons other than his tears for once. “Do not jest, Harry,” Louis says, half pleading. 

Harry smiles, a small thing that still makes the dimple all too prominent for Louis’ heart to take. “See, beautiful,” he breathes. “I could not jest about such a thing. Not with you.” 

“You are too kind to me,” Louis says, and the words come out as dismayed as he feels. “I do not deserve this kindness. I was awful to Georgiana today and she is with child! I made an expecting mother cry, one who has only ever treated me with kindness. I hurt Liam too, and he has taken care of me when he could have easily just sent me off with money to live on one of the other estates. I am an awful person, I must be, to keep destroying things this easily.” He’s crying again, fat ugly tears streaming down his face. He cannot take Harry’s kindness, nor his sincerity. 

“You deserve all the kindness in the world, no matter what you wrongly think of yourself.” Harry moves then, slotting himself in next to Louis, no room between them. “May I touch you?”

Louis nods, turning away from the bookshelf and into Harry’s arms as the other man opens them, wrapping around him as best he can in the small space. It’s improper, so improper that Louis would surely be ruined if anyone were to find them like this, but he can’t find it in himself to care when Harry is so warm, and so present, and doesn’t seem to care at all that Louis is soaking his clothes with his tears. 

Harry strokes his hair with one hand, slowly and with the utmost care, as the other stays locked around him. It’s reminiscent of the last day Louis saw Harry before their four year separation. It was the day before Louis’ nineteenth birthday, the first without his father, and Harry had found him like this; crying in the library. He had held him then too, albeit with a bit more distance, less intimately, but just as comforting. It fills him with shame now, just as it did then, for the man to see him like this. What must he think of him? It says a lot about him that he cares more about Harry’s opinion of him than he does the fact that their closeness in this moment is deeply inappropriate, simply because of Louis’ place in society. 

“I am sorry,” Louis manages to blubber out between sobs. “Your shirt—“

“Do not apologise,” Harry murmurs against his hair, pressing a kiss there that if Louis were in more of a state to think about, his heart would surely burst. “I do not need your apologies. All I wish for is to take this away from you, to lessen this hurt somehow.”

It doesn’t sound like a lie. 

“Would it be okay if we just stayed like this, just for a while?” He sobs, feeling pathetic for even asking. 

“Of course,” Harry whispers. “Of course. For as long as you like, I have nowhere else to be.”

And so they do. They sit together, so close they could become one if such a thing were possible, until Louis’ sobs once again soften bit by bit before drying up completely. They sit together in the back of the library, in another world, until the summer sun has tucked itself safely away to make room for the moon. 

It’s dark when Louis finally stops crying for good. Only the moonlight shining through the windows and the distant glow of a lamp that’s lit at the other end of the room lights up the space, barely enough light for them to see each other fully and certainly not enough light to read any of the sea of books they find themselves in. Harry holds him still, has not let up on his comforting touches the entire time they’ve sat there, even though it must be uncomfortable for him. Louis is uncomfortable, the unforgiving floor giving him numb legs and a sore bum. Harry must be worse, with his long body bent to accommodate Louis.

He does not complain once.

It’s Louis who breaks first, moving himself in Harry’s hold so he can look at his face properly. It’s close, closer than he ever thought he would find himself to him. Even in the awful light, Harry is the most handsome man he has ever seen.

“Thank you,” is all he says, because he cannot think of anything else. Embarrassed, he notes how hoarse his voice is from crying. 

Harry shakes his head, smiling. “I do not need your gratitude. It is, however, very late, and you should sleep.”

“Mm,” Louis acknowledges, suddenly realising just how tired he is. Drained might be the right word. He is completely drained. 

“Will you be okay?” Harry asks, running a thumb over Louis’ cheek with more care than he deserves. 

“Most likely not,” Louis half-jokes with a sad little laugh. “I know it is a lot to ask, after everything, but will you walk me to my room?”

He isn’t sure he can make it alone. He is tired, and is sure to collapse the moment he reaches his bed, but he fears that any small thing could set him off before then, and the thought of that happening in the middle of a hallway where anyone could find him terrifies him. Just for a few moments more, he needs Harry. Then, the other man can be free of him. 

“I would have insisted anyway,” Harry replies, before using the sturdy shelf to lift himself up off the ground, groaning at the stiffness in his legs. He then reaches a hand out to Louis, who gladly takes the help. 

Louis expects Harry to drop the hand once they are both standing, but instead he threads their fingers together with a grin and gestures towards the library entrance with his free hand. “Shall we?”

“Liam will lose his rag if he sees us, you know?” Louis says as they walk out together hand in hand. The hallways are empty, the others long since retired and the servants likely in bed themselves, or in the lower part of the house cleaning there so as not to disturb anyone, but the fear is still there. It is not a strong enough fear to make him drop the warm, comforting, big hand that may well be keeping him together. 

“I rather think he deserves it after today,” Harry counters, squeezing Louis’ hand the slightest bit. 

Louis smiles, hoping Harry doesn’t catch the intensity of it in the candle lit hallway. They do not talk after that, both to lessen the slim but present chance of getting caught and because they do not feel the need to, once again comfortable in the silence. It does not take long for them to reach the door to Louis’ rooms, and when they do Harry finally drops Louis’ hand.

He tries not to feel bereft at the loss. 

Neither of them move for a moment, standing beside the door watching each other as if waiting for something. Louis does not know what it is they are waiting for, but he feels it heavy in his chest all the same, making breathing difficult all of a sudden.

Harry breaks first this time, with a mock-polite bow. “Goodnight, Louis.” 

Louis tips his head back with a barely concealed grin. “I hope you sleep well, Harry. Thank you, again.”

“I beg of you to stop thanking me,” Harry pleads with a kind, quiet laugh. “I do not need it, I promise you. If you needed me, for however long, there is no greater way for me to have spent my evening.” 

They are closer now, somehow. Louis is blushing, again, and he fears he must go to bed soon before he does something stupid, or embarrassing, or entirely ruinous. “You are a good man,” he says before he can say something much worse.

“You are wonderful,” Harry replies, and then he’s holding Louis’ face with both hands, almost cradling. Louis cannot speak, nor can he breathe.

He does not know what is happening. He does not know what he wishes to happen, only that Harry’s hands on his skin are burning him from the inside out and he does not wish for it to end. Harry does not make any further moves for a few beats, green eyes wandering over Louis’ face, a small crease between his brow, like he himself is confused as to what he’s doing.

A moment later, Harry moves, placing a foot forward to move a step closer, almost bringing their bodies together but not quite. Louis thinks for one horrifying, thrilling moment that he might kiss him. And he does, in a way, pressing his lips to Louis’ forehead, lingering there for three heavy, thudding heartbeats. 

Unbidden, Louis’ thoughts turn to Zayn and the goodnight kiss pressed to his cheek by the man last night, and how his only thoughts in that moment were on Harry, and how it might feel if he did the same thing. Now that it is happening, albeit with friendlier intentions than Zayn might have had, Louis feels the difference like he would feel a knife in the gut. He would take a single friendly touch from Harry over a thousand romantic ones from anyone else. 

The thought scares him. Perhaps this really is not just some childhood infatuation he has failed to get over after all. 

Suddenly, as if it never happened, Harry lets him go and takes a step away. Neither of them acknowledge it, saying goodnight one more time before Harry leaves him there to retire to his own bed all the way on the other side of the large manor. 

Louis is, well and truly, fucked.

Breakfast the next morning is a miserable affair. Expected and yet painful, all the same.

Liam cannot and will not look at Louis, which is fine because Louis is steadfast in his intentions to not even look in the direction of his brother. Georgiana, actually attending for once, sits beside Liam and from the few glances Louis does take their way, does not look best pleased with her husband. 

The three of them do not speak to each other, not that anyone is surprised by that. Zayn and Harry once again take the brunt of it, having to steer all conversation, this time keeping it firmly in safer waters. Harry sits beside Louis this time, having all but dived for the seat before anyone could stop him. Zayn sits opposite them, beside Georgiana, looking far too thoughtful for Louis’ comfort. 

They make it through the meal without incident, and then it is time for Zayn to leave.

It’s a hard goodbye for Louis, much harder than he expected. Zayn, not caring about what is proper, hugs Louis tightly. 

“I will write to you, okay?” Zayn whispers into his ear. 

“Promise?” Louis whispers back. 

“I promise,” Zayn replies, before letting go and stepping away to say a somewhat tense goodbye to the others. 

And then he is gone, and Louis is without his emotional buffer. 

The days after that pass slowly. Liam does not attempt to apologise once, and so they continue their little game of pretending the other does not exist. Georgiana tries, a few times, to engage Louis in conversation, but it’s stilted and awkward and more painful than either of them thought it might be. 

Harry stays. Louis does not know why, but he announces his intentions to stay for a week only moments after Zayn leaves, and then spends almost every second of every day bothering Louis.

Not that Louis minds. Liam appears to, if his sour face at every meal is any indication, but Louis cannot tell if that’s because Harry is spending time with Louis over him, or if it is because he’s spending time with Louis at all. Louis, secretly, delights in the knowledge that he is causing his brother any sort of emotional pain. 

Things between Louis and Harry are wonderful. The library breakdown seems to have brought down whatever awkward wall was held between them and now their friendship flows almost too easily. Harry seeks him out every morning without fail, offering to walk him to breakfast as if he does not know the way to his own dining room. He follows him afterwards too, wherever Louis wishes to go. 

They spend hours upon hours in the library, reading together in comfortable silence, only breaking that silence to share small comments about the books, and perhaps a few long winded rants about fictional men, in Louis’ case. 

Harry drags him outside for an hour or so every day, stressing the importance of sunlight for one’s mood, which Louis does not entirely agree with and yet he follows without complaint. Always walking close, but not quite close enough to touch, they wander the gardens and the grounds, reminiscing on fond summer memories, always skirting around Liam’s presence in them. At some point in every trip outside they will find themselves sitting on the bench by the rose bushes, Louis’ favourite spot to hide as a child when the library became too stifling. 

They talk there, in the quiet of the garden, about everything and nothing. 

Louis finds over the week that he does not tire of Harry’s company once. It is odd for him to feel that way, when for most of his life he has needed space from everyone at some point in time. Before, only Effie and Georgiana could get away with bothering him for so long, and he would even tire of them, sometimes. 

But with Harry, no matter how many hours of the day they spend in each other's presence, the cloying, panicked feeling Louis gets when he feels overwhelmed and exhausted by conversation does not overtake him once. In fact, Harry calms him when that feeling creeps up during meals, when Liam and Georgiana’s looks start to grate on him. He needs only to look at Harry, and it all eases.

It is one of the happiest weeks Louis has had in a long time. Even with the grey cloud that is his brother hanging over him, he can only find joy in every moment spent with Harry. 

The night before Harry’s departure, Louis is scared. Terrified, even. Distraught, if he is being honest. 

He does not want to say goodbye. Any feelings he has aside, he has made a real friend. Someone who truly cares about him. Unlike when they were children, Harry is not simply his friend because he is Liam’s brother, and he has no other choice. This time, their friendship has flourished in spite of Liam, with no obligations to be found. Harry gets him, and his weird ways, and does not think less of him for them. He does not know how he feels about losing that, especially when he has lost two of his safe places at Rosewood Hall already. 

Dinner tonight is louder than any of the others this week. Liam has regained some of his chattiness, talking amicably with Harry as if he has not been throwing him daggers for days. Georgiana talks to Louis some more, even manages to pull a laugh out of him. He smothers it quickly. Harry talks of his plans once he returns to London; some business he has to conduct that Louis frankly does not care about, and some balls that Louis does care about. Liam asks him if he intends to court someone in London before the season ends, and Harry cannot seem to answer. Louis hopes that means he does not, though he knows it should not, and does not matter to him in the grand scheme of things. He could see Harry at the wedding they would surely be invited to, at least. Perhaps it would be a good thing after all.

The irrationally jealous part of him is not sated by that thought. 

The conversation moves on, and soon enough dinner is over and it is time to retire. Liam asks Harry to join him for a drink in the parlour, Georgiana goes to bed with an oncoming migraine and Louis is left alone.

Having nothing else to do and nobody to talk to about the many, many thoughts in his head, he goes to bed. The only thought he allows himself to think before falling asleep is that Effie will be home tomorrow, and perhaps Harry’s parting will be eased by that. The only other thing that crosses Louis’ mind is the same thing that has drifted through it every night since it happened; the memory of Harry’s lips on his forehead, and his hands on his face. 

Hazy dreams of roses and dancing and things that do not make any sense float through his sleep, until he is pulled from them suddenly by knocking.

Louis jumps up in bed, sleepy and confused. The knocking continues, gentle but persistent on his bedroom door. 

Concerned, he slips out of bed and pads across the room to

the door, pulling it open. Harry stands there, fist still raised to knock, his concentrated frown morphing into a grin when he sees Louis. 

“Harry?” Louis looks behind the man, checking that Liam is not standing behind him. “What are you doing here? What time is it?”

“You are in your bedclothes,” Harry says in reply, ignoring Louis’ words entirely, gaze fixed firmly where it should not be. 

Louis realises then that he is, in fact, not dressed for company. His white nightshirt is a tad too big, hanging off his shoulder and exposing more skin than he would show outside of his room. He frowns, pulling it up as best he can before crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Well, yes, I was in bed. Which is where you should be. Now, answer my questions.” Louis may be a bit snippy. He does hate having his sleep interrupted.

“What questions?” Harry asks distractedly, eyes still wandering. 

Losing his patience, Louis snaps his fingers in front of Harry’s face until his gaze snaps up and he finally locks eyes with him. He has a dazed look in his eye, likely from whatever spirits Liam has plied him with. Great, Louis thinks to himself. 

“What are you doing here?” He asks again. “What time is it?”

“Oh!” Harry nods as if he suddenly understands. “It is late! I know that much, I think uhhh, perhaps past midnight? I distinctly remember hearing the chimes from the grandfather clock as I was walking around.”

Louis sighs, very sure now that he is getting nowhere with this. “And? Why are you here? Liam will kill you if he finds you here,” Louis says, exasperated and quite certain that Liam would not even give either of them the chance to speak before committing the murder. “Are you drunk or stupid or both?”

Harry shrugs, pushing gently past Louis and entering his room without permission. “Both, I think,” he says, plopping himself down onto the chaise longue by the fire. “I needed to see you, before I go.”

“And it could not wait until the morning?”

“I needed to see you in private,” Harry clarifies. He seems entranced by the small cushion he has snatched off the seat and clutched to his chest, playing with the tassles. 

Giving up on getting this man out of his room anytime soon, Louis carefully closes the door before moving to sit at the end of his bed, grabbing his red velvet robe on the way and pulling it over him. “Why in private?” he asks. 

Harry turns to look at him. “Your maid! Effie, yes?” Louis nods and Harry smiles as if he’s won something. “You must ask her to take letters for you, from me. I spoke with a boy in the servants quarters, I think his name was Elton? Or perhaps it was Evan? Anyway, he said that if I want to write to you, then it would be best to send them to her.” 

“Oh,” Louis says, surprised. He did not expect Harry to want to write to him so badly. “When did you speak to him?”

“Before I came here?”

Louis frowns then, sure Harry is a madman. “You woke him up?”

Harry pulls a face, a mockery of innocence. “It was of the utmost importance,” he explains with a grin. “Your housekeeper is scary, so I thought I best just poke my head in quickly and talk to the first person I found. Liam was, as expected, quite the arse when I asked him if I could write to you.”

“You asked Liam?” Lord, Louis is too tired for this. Harry has lost it, completely. “Are you mad?”

“I think I might be,” Harry answers, laughing a little hysterically, laying back on the chaise longue and laying his head on the arm rest. “He was not happy, but he will likely forget all about it if all that brandy he drank does its job.”

“For my sake I hope he does, it is already going to be unbearable enough dealing with him without you there to save me from it, without him also concerned that you might be wooing me from a distance,” Louis says, rolling his eyes on the last bit. 

“Would you like me to duel him?” Harry teases, grinning at Louis. His hair is loose and fanned out messily across the arm rest, making him look both hilarious and dashing all at once. 

Louis laughs, shaking his head. “No, Harry, I do not wish for you to kill my brother, or rather get yourself killed trying to shoot him.” 

“Excuse you, I am an excellent shot, I have shot many uhh—rabbits, and a few deer!” Harry assures, then frowns, pouting. “No, no, I cannot lie to you. I have not shot anything, I always miss intentionally because it makes me sad, but I could shoot well! I promise!”

Lord, Louis is far too fond of this idiot. He cannot contain his grin and finds he is glad for Harry’s current state only because it means he will not remember. 

“You are a fool,” Louis tells him, smiling through the words. 

Harry only grins at him, a dopey, tired grin. “I am,” he replies easily. 

“A fool who should go back to his own room and sleep because he has a lot of travelling to do tomorrow,” Louis reminds him. “And your head is going to feel awful, I am sure.”

The future duke is not happy about that suggestion, shaking his head and attempting to give Louis puppy-dog eyes that fall short. “I do not want to leave,” he says, almost pleading. Louis cannot tell if he means this room or the house itself. 

“But you must,” Louis presses on, gently. 

“I must,” Harry sighs. “Will you miss me at all? If the answer is no, please lie. I am in too fragile a state to take such a heartbreak.” 

It is tempting to say no, just to see the look on the man’s face, but Louis cannot lie, not about this. “I will,” he answers truthfully. “More than I thought I might, in fact. You have been the light in my days this past week, and trust that I am only telling you this because you are intoxicated and I am exhausted and I cannot find it in myself to be anything but entirely too truthful, but I will miss you deeply.” 

Louis worries, immediately after closing his mouth, that he has said too much. It would be very much like him to manage to find some way to scare Harry away after the man has gone to such lengths to be able to stay in contact with him. How is it that he manages to be so quiet and yet always say the completely wrong thing. 

Oblivious to Louis’ inner turmoil, Harry is smiling, a bright, relieved, dimpled grin. “The feeling is very much returned, I assure you,” he says, words slightly disrupted towards the end by a yawn. 

“See, you need to sleep,” Louis laughs, unable to hide his own relief at hearing that Harry will miss him too. “I need to sleep, as I was before you so rudely awakened me.” 

Harry stands then, making a whole clumsy show of it, and walks to the end of Louis’ bed, resting his hands against the frame of it to steady himself, looking down on the younger man with a hazy sort of sadness in his eyes. “I am sorry for waking you,” he says. 

It’s not a good position for Louis’ neck, but he keeps looking up at him anyway. “I do not believe that,” Louis answers with a smile. “You were far too pleased with yourself when I opened the door, I think you enjoy vexing me.”

“I enjoy seeing your face,” Harry counters. “Though currently, I believe I am seeing two of you.” He leans fully against the bedpost now, yawning again. “Perhaps I have drunk too much, after all.”

“I believe you have, yes. Do you need me to walk you to your room?” He doesn’t exactly want to leave his room right now, or walk all the way to the other side of the house and back, but he also does not want Harry to trip and fall into a priceless ornament or something on the way.

Harry nods, eyes screwed closed. “Please, I’m sorry,” he says pitifully. Whatever he drank seems to be rapidly catching up with him, and Louis fears the state Liam may be in if he supposedly drank more. 

Louis sighs before getting up and putting his robe on properly, slipping his arms in and tying it closed at the waist. “Come on then,” he says, taking Harry by the arm gently and pulling him away from the bed frame he’s still clinging to. “Bedtime for drunk Lords.” 

The man laughs at that, so Louis is at least calmed by the knowledge that he is still present. Slowly, he leads them out of his bedroom, through his lounge and out into the hall. Harry stays close to him, quiet for once.

Blessedly, the hall is empty. Louis can’t even begin to imagine what will happen if someone finds them like this, with Harry clearly intoxicated and Louis clinging to him to keep him upright. Liam would likely have some sort of heart attack and then he’d be really done for. If he’s not prepared to be a husband, he’s surely not prepared to be a bloody Earl. 

He does not have to face that fate, because they make it to Harry’s room in the other wing with only a few stumbles and one near miss where Louis trips and nearly topples before Harry manages to catch him. How he did that, neither of them know, but they make it there unscathed. 

“Can you manage to get yourself into bed?” Louis jokes, talking quietly just in case, though there is nobody around at this hour and Liam’s rooms are closer to Louis’. 

“I think so, just about,” Harry replies, leaning heavily against the door but holding Louis’ hand in his still. 

Louis should let go, should push him into the room and trot off back to his own bed and sleep, but he cannot get himself to move. A few moments more to drink in Harry’s presence and pretend he won’t be leaving in the morning, that’s all he needs. Just a few more moments and then everything will be back to normal and he can remind himself that Harry doesn’t really care, and will probably forget about him the moment he is off the grounds. 

Another part of him believes Harry wholeheartedly and trusts that he will actually write, and not just out of obligation because he said he would. It’s very conflicting, living in Louis’ brain. He is quite tired of it. 

Harry, oblivious to Louis’ thoughts as usual, does not seem in a rush to go to bed himself, even though he is clearly plagued by dizziness. 

It’s silent in the hallway for a minute or so, other than the distant ticking of a clock. Until Harry decides to speak, head resting against the door frame but eyes firmly open and on Louis. 

“I would kiss you if I were sober, or perhaps if I were so intoxicated that I could no longer pretend to have restraint,” he says, as if it is not completely devastating for Louis to hear. 

He is drunk, Louis reminds himself. He is drunk and he has done this so many times with so many people, and Louis is not special. This is not what Louis wants it to be, it cannot be what Louis wants it to be. It is foolish words from a foolish, handsome man, and Louis has to repeat that to himself on a loop to stop himself from drowning.

Looking into Harry’s eyes, he tries desperately to find the answers he seeks in them. Why would you say that? Why to me? Who are you seeing in my place? Because the words cannot be meant for him.

“I do not think you would,” Louis answers gently. Harry does not like that response, his annoyingly endearing frown slipping back into place.

“Would you let me?” He asks.

“Yes,” Louis answers too quickly, because Harry’s thumb is rubbing over the back of his hand and he’s distracted by both the touch and the intensity of the man’s gaze in the dim lamplight.

“Then I would,” Harry says, frown melting away. “I will repeat my words again one day when my head is not spinning and maybe you will believe them then.”

Doubtful as ever, Louis shakes his head. “Go to sleep, Lord Styles.”

A kiss is pressed to the back of Louis’ hand, lingering there. “Goodnight, Louis,” Harry says into his skin, before finally letting go of the hand. 

Louis feels the loss of Harry’s touch more than he should. 

“Goodnight,” he says back. 

Harry turns and fumbles with the door handle then, letting himself into his room and offering Louis one last smile and a nod of his head before he disappears into the darkness and shuts the door behind him. Louis is alone in the corridor, mind reeling.

The walk back to his own room seems to take forever, now that he’s alone. He forgets often just how large his home is, until it is late at night and not a soul is about and he finds himself walking the long hallways alone, fighting not to see shadows in the dim light. It always terrified him as a child, so much so that he would never ever walk the corridors at night unless Liam was with him, protecting him from the unseen spectors he had convinced himself were surely there. 

God, Liam. Liam is going to be a pain in the morning. And Harry is leaving, leaving Louis with no choice but to talk to his brother eventually. It won’t be long before he tries to talk, Louis is sure. Stressed, he pushes that thought away as quickly as it comes and focuses on not tripping over his own feet. 

After what feels like a long time, Louis finally makes it back to his room. It smells overwhelmingly of Harry in here, something he hadn’t noticed while the man was in the room, aftershave and whisky lingering in the air.

Louis lets it lull him back to sleep, a little ashamed by the comfort it brings him.

Harry was right about Liam drinking more than him.

He looks awful at breakfast, deep, dark eye bags and a hazy look in his eye like the alcohol hasn’t quite yet made its way out of his system. Georgiana looks tired too, and angry at Liam in a way that makes it clear he kept her up half the night. Harry, in comparison, looks downright cheerful.

Louis himself is tired, having had a fitful sleep due to Harry’s drunken words. 

Overall, it makes for a quiet breakfast. 

Whilst stabbing at his eggs tiredly, Louis tries and fails not to be hurt by the fact that Harry did not meet him outside his rooms to walk him to breakfast as he has done every day this week. He also tries and fails not to be hurt by the fact that Harry does not seem all that interested in conversing with him. It’s fine, he tells himself, he’s just tired. He has a long day ahead of him, and his head must surely hurt, it is not that he remembers the events of last night and now hates Louis deeply.

Louis hopes, at least. 

Hope does not do much to quiet the mess that is his brain. Still, he makes it through breakfast without crying, which seems to be an achievement these days, so he cannot be too mad. 

Once breakfast is finished, there is a horrible period of time where Harry is off with his valet packing the last of his things, the stable boys are preparing the horses and the carriage, Liam is off, likely being sick and Louis is just there, waiting. 

Georgiana finds him where he waits, sitting in the parlour biting his nails.

“Are you okay?” She asks suddenly from the doorway, startling him.

Abruptly, he drops his hand from his mouth and wipes it against his trouser leg. “I am fine,” he says, trying hard to leave out the bitterness that has soured his few words to her in the past week. “Just bored, is all.”

“Little one,” she says, making it sound like an admonishment. “Whether you are angry at me or not, you know full well you cannot lie to me.”

She joins him on the settee, her skirts taking up the space where his legs aren’t curled up. 

Louis decides then, pretty quickly, that he is tired of being angry at her. For now, at least, he just needs his Georgiana back. “I am afraid I might miss him too much,” he admits. 

Georgiana nods sympathetically, only kindness in her eyes this time. “I think he will miss you too, if that helps at all.”

Louis does not know that it does. Partially because he cannot believe it and partially because he cannot even begin to think about what it might mean for Harry to miss him. 

“Is Liam awfully mad at me?” Louis asks then, because if he thinks of Harry any more he will spiral. Somehow, Liam has become an easier topic. 

Looking terribly guilty and sad all at once, Georgiana shakes her head, curls bouncing. “He is more mad at himself, believe me. I hope that in time you will allow him to apologise, that he will allow himself to swallow his stupid pride and tell you how sorry he is,” she says, unable to look directly at Louis. “I was so mad at him, Louis, you have no idea. I am mad at myself, for ever enabling him.” 

Perhaps it is not quite the easy topic Louis thought it was. He might cry, the small lump in his throat that has been present all morning suddenly making itself known. 

“Did he tell you everything he said?” He asks, nodding to himself when Georgiana nods in reply. “I believed him. I believed every word and I think I always will, to some extent. It will take a long time for me to forgive him for the thoughts he has plagued me with, the insecurities I will now always be aware of. Can you blame me for finding that some part of me hates him, when he has done that to me?”

Georgiana places a hand over his while he speaks and he does not push her away, instead letting himself bask in the comfort he has sorely missed. 

“I cannot blame you for that, no. I can only wish that one day your heart will heal and you will see how much we love you, unthinkable words aside,” she answers, and it sounds sincere.

Louis knows that they love him, just the same as he knows that their love for him is the entire reason that they cannot see him as the adult that he is, because to them he will always be a scared, hurt, little boy who needs guidance. Even if part of that boy still lies within him, he needs them to allow him the space to find the other parts of himself. 

He does not have the mental power to explain that to Georgiana, not today. Instead, he just nods, placing his other hand over the one laid on top of his and squeezing. “I love you both too, that is why I have been so hurt by it all,” he says. 

“I know, little one, I know. Harry has helped you though, this week?” Great, they’re back on Harry.

Louis nods with a smile that is bordering on pained. “Yes, he has. He has been the kind of friend I did not realise I needed,” he admits. 

“I am glad, truly,” she says. “I have to admit, I did not expect it, even after you confessed your admiration for him. I thought perhaps you were too different to get along outside of childhood, but I am glad to be wrong, if it has brought you some comfort.”

“And you haven’t told Liam? About my admiration?” He asks, frowning. Admiration feels like entirely the wrong word for the depth of the feelings he feels he has no right to feel so soon. Admiration barely scratches the surface. 

She shakes her head quickly. “I promise I have not and you have my word that I will continue to keep quiet,” she answers, a hand on her heart as if that will solidify the promise she is making. “It would not do any of us any good, to give Liam something more to worry about when it comes to you two.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “What else does he have to worry about?”

Caught, she tries to laugh it off, but Louis knows her all too well. “I only mean that he is worried about you, and he will miss Harry until he sees him again!” She answers, too quickly and a little too hysterically.

Louis’ eyebrow only raises further. “You will tell me what you really mean, Georgiana, or I will go and ask him myself,” he threatens, unsure on if he intends to follow through or not.

With a small sigh, she leans back against the back of the settee and lets go of Louis’ hand to run a hand through her red locks. “Liam believes that Harry has feelings for you,” she says, the look on her face making it evident that she does not wish to say this. “I do not know why he thinks that, but he is rather set on it. I am sure you are aware that they have not spoken much this week, with you spending every day with him, but whatever happened between them last night only solidified it for him. He is quite sure.”

The words don’t quite register with Louis, not for a moment. When they do, he still cannot make sense of them. 

“Last night?” He repeats, searching for clarification.

“When Liam came to bed last night, he stunk of brandy and would not stop muttering about you and Harry for hours. I kicked him out in the end,” she explains. 

“Oh.” He frowns. “I do not understand, I am not sure I see whatever it is that Liam sees. Harry is a good friend to me, and I am certain that friendship is all he feels towards me.” 

Georgiana shrugs. “It would not surprise me. He looks at you an awful lot at mealtimes, almost constantly. I don’t know how you manage to eat, with the way he stares.” 

Louis frowns further. “I have not noticed,” he states truthfully. Surely he would? Yes, he often looks at Harry and finds Harry is already looking, but he has always chalked that down to odd timing. 

“You always have been oblivious,” Georgiana points out, not unkindly. 

“I suppose,” he agrees, only to end this line of conversation. It is not something he can accept when the man in question is leaving within the hour and likely won’t be returning for months, if he ever comes again. “It does not matter. Tell me about the baby, will you be naming him Louis if he is a boy?”

Thankfully, she laughs. “Absolutely not,” she replies. “I would not want him to take after you, changing subjects to avoid facing uncomfortable truths,” she teases, grinning. 

“Well, I think it’s an admirable trait. One that I do not see myself getting rid of any time soon,” he counters. 

“I would not expect you to, I find it very entertaining. Anyhow, I have a feeling that the baby might be a girl.”

“You do? Is it possible to know?” Louis asks. He knows very little about pregnancy, though he absolutely should know more. 

“No, but I have a strong feeling. My sister, her pregnancies with her daughters were much more painful than with her son. I cannot help but wonder if that is the same for me, I certainly feel awful enough,” she explains. “My headaches alone have been relentless, let alone the constant nausea, I am unsure of how I am going to deal with this for all the months ahead.”

Louis feels terribly bad for not having been around for her this week. He feels worse for not having expressed to her enough how happy he is for her and how excited he is for the child. 

“Anything you need in the future, let me know, okay?” He says, taking her hands. “I am sure I cannot be of much help but even if you need someone to sit and rub your temples and tell Liam to piss off, I will do so gladly.” 

She laughs softly, squeezing his hands. “That is a very entertaining image. I will be sure to take you up on it, especially the last part.” 

“I would be upset if you didn’t,” Louis replies truthfully. 

Their little heart to heart is interrupted then by a footman coming to announce that Lord Styles is ready to leave and their presence has been requested in the entrance hall. 

Louis’ mood immediately dips back into melancholy territory but Georgiana, the angel that she is, clasps his hand and does not let go of it as they walk out to say goodbye.

Liam and Harry are deep in conversation when they arrive, standing close to each other by the door and talking quietly. Louis cannot fully grasp the tone of the conversation without hearing the words, but Harry’s jaw is clenched and Liam looks fairly unhappy, though that could be from his hangover. 

Whatever it was about, the conversation stops abruptly once they realise they are no longer alone, both men turning and plastering on polite, caught smiles. So it was an argument, Louis thinks to himself. Interesting. 

“Harry and I were just discussing some business in parliament. Politics, you know,” Liam says, waving a hand. It’s a terrible lie, even for him. He never has been able to lie all that well. 

“I do not know, I am just a lowly woman,” Georgiana teases, as she often does when anyone brings up typically male things, despite the fact that she is tremendously well educated. 

Liam and Harry, both used to her ways, laugh it off, some of the tension leaving the room. Louis is having a hard time focusing on anything but Harry, standing in the sunlight streaming through the open door, dressed in his travelling clothes. His hair is up again in a loose bun, leaving far too much of his strong jawline on show for Louis’ sensitive heart. 

“As much as I would love to stand here and talk to you lovely people all day, everything is ready, I believe,” Harry says then, eyes meeting Louis’ and staying there. “I should really get going before the horses start revolting.” 

“Quite right,” Liam says, clapping a slightly too aggressive hand on Harry’s shoulder, jolting his eyes away from Louis. 

“Yes, yes,” Harry coughs awkwardly, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. He shakes Liam off gently before crossing the room to say goodbye to Georgiana with a tight hug. The two share some whispered words that Louis can’t make out before Harry removes himself from the embrace, offers Georgiana a smile and steps towards Louis.

Louis is unsure of what to do. Liam would surely kill him for going in for a hug but at the same time he feels he has earned the right to the same familiarity that his brother and his wife share with the man. 

Harry makes his internal panic pointless as he wraps Louis in a tight, friendly hug, just like the one he shared with Georgiana. 

“Every word I have said to you this past week, I meant wholeheartedly. Every single one,” Harry breathes into his ear, sending shockwaves down his spine. “I will write. Swear to me that you will write back?” 

Stunned by the pleading tone and the words he cannot decipher, Louis nods, chin hooked on Harry’s shoulder. “I swear I will,” he replies. 

The other man lets go then, ringed fingers lingering on his arm for a second too long before he seemingly forces himself to step away, walking back to a deeply annoyed Liam. The men share a terse goodbye, one that is harder to see than Louis thought it would be. Louis was always jealous of the friendship they shared when they were children and here they are, feuding over nothing but a misunderstanding. Louis doesn’t understand how it ended up like this.

All too soon, Harry is gone. Just like that, it’s all over. 

Liam disappears the moment the carriage disappears out of sight, unable to so much as look at Louis on the way out. Georgiana follows him, furious. Louis is left standing there, not understanding anything and feeling outnumbered now that he doesn’t have Harry there to pull him away from it all. 

The only thing Louis is sure of in this moment is that it’s going to be a long, long few months.