Chapter Text
The archbishop begins the wedding ceremony after the choir silences, pews of the gothic church packed and the aroma of fragrance mixed with heat unescapable. “The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of the holy spirit, be with you.”
Harry sits beside his nephew, niece on his bouncing knee to keep them both awake. He doesn’t reply with everyone else, “And also with you,” staring blankly at the bride’s gown train that lays long and flat down the aisle.
“God is love, and those who live in love, live in God, and God lives in them. In the presence of God, father, son, and holy spirit, we have come together to witness the marriage of…”
He glances down the row at his mother and, in motherly instinct, her head barely turns away from the betrothed couple, corner of her lips giving something like a smile but he knows what it means.
“…to pray for God’s blessing on them, to share their joy, and to celebrate their love.”
She’s daring the Prince, not her son, to defy his Queen. He rolls his eyes, whispers to his niece a question that has her nodding excitedly, and stands up with her on his hip.
The archbishop continues, “Marriage is a gift of God’s creation in which man and wife…” but all eyes on are him including the royal groom and soon-to-be royal bride. His nephew grabs his hand and he grabs back to give his approval, stepping passed an unobstructed Gemma and her grinning husband until he’s walking to the back of the church. He debates exiting through the large grand doors but decides not to be that much of a dick – his point’s already been made – and heads toward the basement stairwell.
*****
Harry accepting his diploma might be the most beautiful, most proud moment in Louis’ life. He feels absolute selflessness when Harry walks across the stage in his robe, one hand reaching for a handshake from the chancellor and the other for the small black portfolio containing his degree. Everything in his career was for his and the boys’ benefit but this now, green eyes sparkling and gorgeous face glowing, has nothing to do with him and all to do with the man he loves. It’s a joy he’s never felt before.
Whereas the royal family and select alumni sit on the higher loges overlooking the theatre hall, he’s seated with the crowd on the ground level…by himself, neither royal nor alum. Being the Prince’s beau didn’t permit him many privileges, he discovered, nor guarantee his inclusion at all. Louis, on multiple occasions, was unable to accompany him during royal activities, even if Harry requested and damn near insisted (read: informal intimidation). Being included is a privilege, he learned, and he’s adjusted by now to this divide.
He’s able to watch the ceremony in an uncomfortable wooden chair with a bad view, and it’s a privilege.
Harry returns among his peers and finds Louis in the mass of faces, grin widening and tipping the small leather book like a salute, a blush spreading across Louis’ cheeks as if this is his first time being flattered by a prince.
Louis (along with many others) lowers his phone, screen showing a muted video call with Liam, Zayn, and Niall in the corner talking excitedly. Harry had been denied extra tickets for the boys, a common verdict when it came to “friends of the crown,” yet Louis got them to see his ceremony in a way.
He holds up a peace sign at the rear camera, which is ignored as Niall shoves Zayn to put Liam in a headlock, and ends the call.
***
“You’ll be enlisting in the navy now, surely,” Prime Minister Simon Cowell presses during the celebration in Kensington Garden, pulling Harry aside, “following the footsteps of your father and grandfather.”
“I’ve been strongly considering it, yes,” he entertains, though not fond of said idea nor the PM.
Since their coming out, an event which became known worldwide as the royal announcement in a play-on-words from royal engagement, Simon’s presence in the palace grew beyond Queen Anne’s affairs to extend in the prince’s, public and private. Louis’ frequent exclusion had been at his suggestion, never failing to mention “he’s a commoner” as a winning argument with the queen, and Harry didn’t take well to the conservative’s meddling.
Simon angles his head, unconvinced, remarking, “It is, after all, tradition.”
“As were beheadings at one point.” He becomes antsy, this party for his academic achievement and not wanting to talk about post-grad life. His niece and Louis are on the other side of the garden, a deck of cards between them, and he yearns to be playing with them, too.
The times Louis’ allowed an invite, Harry’s not by his side much so he’s left to fend for himself. There’s no opportunity for him to make a friend or even establish an ally, the guests in attendance always different – it’s not the society pages where the same handful of cliques mingle at the same events – so once pleasantries and warm greetings run out, he finds company in Gemma’s children as a chaperon figure. He likes the two rascals enough and keeps them out of trouble while Gemma socializes, his inner coat pocket eventually home to a trusty deck of cards.
Simon chuckles. “Execution methods are politically defined and, with all due respect, hardly a proper example for tradition.” Harry can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes, not taking well to Simon’s condescension either. “How will it look if the face of our country, the heir apparent, chooses to not–?”
“I know how it’ll look,” he softly retorts, his exterior a brick wall, cold and solid, “and I haven’t ruled out anything.”
University exhausts his educational options and opens the reality to his future: inheriting a Counsellor of State from his uncle on his next birthday and signifying a start to his mandatory royal duties.
“You haven’t committed,” he counters, “you and I both know why.”
Among those duties were lengthy international visits and a marriage approved by the Church of England, not exactly a recipe ideal for a young, gay, publicized couple.
“I’m quite clear of your opinion on this matter, Mr. Cowell,” he iterates, warning, “and do not wish to discuss any further. You’re excused.”
Simon half-bows in departure, Harry glaring at his back while his mind spins in frustration. Tradition this, tradition that. Simon and his mother have formed a tag-team of sorts to pressure him because, as of late, if it’s not one, it’s the other.
He waits for Louis’ attention then nods at the side bar. Uninterested in the trays of wine and canapes, he scoops a tumbler in the ice box and chews on some crushed ice, the bartender shamelessly agape though Harry offers a smile. Louis notices while approaching and grabs his hand to move them away, giving the barback the most half-assed smile he could.
“What’d Scowl,” their nickname for the PM, “have to say?”
“The usual.” He keeps a calm face but tightly squeezes Louis’ fingers, left eyebrow lifted for a couple seconds and it’s all the indication he needs to give. Visible reactions not behind closed doors, Louis learned, those don’t exist. Louis’ learned a lot and squeezes back.
Harry glances down at their hands, chin tilted enough to speak without the risk of his lips being read. “What time do you leave in the morning?”
Louis’ heart sinks at the reminder and murmurs, “Ten, ten thirty,” due in Sweden for the next week to record.
Even worse than not being allowed to go along to many royal appearances is that his own career limited their already-little time together, and it shrunk by the day. One Direction had been skyrocketing but, as soon as he and Harry went public, they fucking exploded in a matter of weeks. The album was pushed up, the tour, too, plus added dates in three continents and all major cities, then promotions for both, before either were available to consumers, simultaneously…and the inevitable rumor mill published on magazine racks throughout the airport impossible to ignore.
How he’s using Harry to advance his career. How he’s isolating himself from the band. How his bandmates are isolating him.
He’s. He’s never cared about tabloid covers before – Harry and Alyssa were a frequent story once – but he’s just spent too much time in airports lately, he prefers the bus…and he misses him, just fucking misses him.
Harry sees the faraway gaze in Louis’ eyes, knows better than to do what he’s about to and giving zero fucks, and kisses the side of his neck. Physical gestures are for offering support and to display compassion. He doesn’t pull back right away, nestled nose inhaling warm Louis and feeling the comfort he fell in love with. He knows what the papers have said about them, knows what his mum will say about this kiss, There will be no mouth-to-mouth contact during official royal outings, and knows Louis means more than all that. “Love you,” he mouths against his jaw and Louis whispers the words back.
Louis diverts his eyes, sees Harry’s deputy secretary Mr. Martin coming with a sad smile, and releases his hand. Harry sighs, “Dammit,” and Louis steps to the side, familiar to the routine of getting blocked from his prince.
Harry grabs Martin’s elbow, keeping him at arm’s length. “You’ll…tonight still, yeah?”
Louis smiles, nods, and hardly registers Harry’s before Martin drags him off.
***
If there’s one thing Louis can’t complain about, it’s his unrestricted access to Harry’s bedroom and not for the obvious sexual reasons either. Harry granted him an open door policy so he could come and go as he wished; of course, the privilege was strict from the entrance gate and staircase to the long hall and door on the left. He’s stopped by a few times when Harry wasn’t in the city, just to curl up and send a selfie before sleep, and a few times Harry’s left him notes in the top drawer of the dresser. It’s something sacred they share.
Louis’ settled in bed, phone quietly playing Banks as he and Liam text frantically about packing lists and notably toiletries, when Harry flops beside him a bit after midnight, long black gown unzipped and suit fully in tact. He tosses the phone on the nightstand and rolls over, lying across Harry and earning a whine. “Six. Been bloody up since before sunbreak.”
Louis wrinkles his nose and unbuttons his stiff collar, working down the front hem.
“I’m- I’m…so tired, love. I don’t think I’d be any–”
Louis presses a finger to Harry’s lips, “And I’m so proud. So proud of you,” then finishes the last couple buttons.
“Piss off,” he scoffs in reply to the praise, “you know I barely did anything.”
“I know nothing. What I do know,” Louis kisses him slowly, tongue teasing Harry’s and making him shiver, “is that you don’t have to do anything tonight.”
Harry whines again, protesting any decision Louis seems to have made because he wants and Louis will be gone tomorrow, until, “I’ll do it for you,” and he fucking beams.
***
Harry wakes up alone just before nine, Louis having left earlier to stop at his flat and grab his bags. It’s easier to sneak out while the other slept, they’ve learned, than enduring the painful separation from watching the other walk away.
His schedule is light for the next few days, a blessing to disguise the long-dreaded meeting arranged by his mother and Simon which, no doubt, will be unpleasant in context.
They’re both seated when he walks in the parlor, clock bells ringing thrice and the look on Simon’s face causing him to repress his anger. He’s gotten familiar with that look…
“Hello darling,” Anne greets, standing to kiss Harry’s cheek, and Harry keeps his glare on the PM. “How’s it feel being a graduate?”
“Suffocating.” He grins mockingly as Anne pulls back. “I have a feeling it’s about to get worse, will it not?”
She smiles, tight lipped, and gestures to the empty cushioned chair. “Only as much as you let it.”
His ass barely touches the seat and the tag-team start lecturing him in a sync similar to ballet. How the word future from his mum is said with this downward inflection and Simon’s sounds like it’s two words, how she whispers crown as if taboo and declared proudly by Simon whom it doesn’t belong. Throne, legacy, tradition, expectations, but his focus is elsewhere. Louis returns the following week, which their anniversary also happens to fall, and they’ve yet to fully set plans because the band’s schedule changes daily it seems. He needs to call him later, get an update on the boys’ plans.
“Your highness.” He blinks away from a painting and at Simon. “We must discuss what you plan to do now.”
“Must we now?” he dryly replies and Simon narrows his eyes.
Anne warns, “Mind your tone, Harold,” and he curls his fingers around the armrests when Simon subtly smirks. Unfamiliar with her son’s reaction to her commands and his uncharacteristic behavior as of late, she shakes her head. “What has gotten into you?”
“Mr. Cowell’s elitism,” he answers swiftly enough, “and the misconception that he’s granted any involvement regarding our family.”
Simon clicks his tongue. “The government and monarchy have long been cooperative in matters of the state and for the bettermen–”
“I’ve seen you in this palace more since my announcement,” he tilts his head, “than any time prior. Coincidence?”
There’s a silence, heavy with the unspoken accusation. Coward. Cowell the Coward. He needed to tell Louis about this new nickname.
Anne softly speaks, “Harry, my acceptance was unfortunately premature and without…”
Acceptance. He’s not naive, as soon as he hears that word, he knows exactly what’s going on. Simon’s forcing his mum to pull her monarch strings on her puppet prince son. The tag-team is about to finally lay down the hammer and he’s going to hate it.
“…you, and for that, I am truly regretful and deeply apologetic. I’ve been advised to discourage your relationship with Mr. Tomlinson,” his chest tightens despite the lack of surprise, “in favor of enrollment at Dartmouth.”
He pointedly glares at Simon. “Of course you’ve been.”
“Harry–”
“Honestly, mum, the ink on my certificate is not yet dry.”
“Harold, you will attend the academy at week’s end.”
He foolishly challenges, “Or what?” and she threatens, tone low, “You know exactly what.”
Composure is in the forefront, a refusal to Simon seeing him otherwise, but he’s absolutely torn because there’s nothing he can do and that helplessness adds to his devastation. He has no interest in the military, never cared to explore weaponry or undergo combat training. The call to serve, to fight for country, the honor, the pride, the sacrifice, the selflessness… His participation, though temporary and simply symbolic, feels like a devised strategy to sabotage him and Louis, his darkest fear. Sovereigns historically destroyed romances and his love for Louis looks to be next.
He addresses Simon, “What are your intentions for shipping me out?” who straightens up. “Hm? What do you plan on making her do,” he nods at his mum, “after I leave? Retract her approval of Mr. Tomlinson as a suitable partner for His Royal Highness Prince Harold?”
“That’s enough, Harry,” she hisses quietly, summoning goosebumps and embarrassment across his body. “I forbid you from communicating with Mr. Tomlinson whilst you’re there. Have I made myself understood?”
***
“She…forbide– forbiddened? Forbade? What’s that even mean? I mean, I know what it means…”
“It.” He closes his eyes, biting his lips and grinding his teeth, tries to neutralize his emotions for this call, for Louis. “Ultimately, it… She could disqualify my eligibility for heir, she could force an abdication and could relinquish my duties, remove my patronage, anything she damn pleases.”
Louis whispers, “Haz,” a pet name that slipped out during one of Harry’s rambling spirals. “What happens now?”
Harry really, really doesn’t want to answer but he needs to, owes Louis the truth without delay. “We. For a little while, anyway…” He sighs, because Louis deserves to hear it face to face…he deserves so much better than what’s about to happen. “I’ve put you through a lot and I know its not been easy for yourself or our relationship…”
He’s not sure he gets the words out until he hears the soft whimper, mind foggy and feeling numb, feeling absolutely shit, I’ll be gone…a year…we can’t see each other but I’ll write.
Sniffles and sobs fill the next ten minutes, it’s still Louis so Harry will take what he can get while he can, even if it demolishes his heart. Then Louis says, “I…need to think, I,” and he drops the phone because there it is, his heart crumbling into nothing.
He can’t blame Louis, he made promises he (and his mother) couldn’t keep: things didn’t get easier, they didn’t have more time together, it seemed more obstacles stood in their way than before. The only thing harder than not being together is not being together while in a relationship. Louis deserves so much better than what he can do…deserves better than a prince, than him.
***
He arrives at the academy the day after general orientation, given a private walkthrough and overview of what to expect in the upcoming weeks, months, year.
“What’s it like sucking dick?”
It’s the first question he’s asked after being introduced to his house’s fellow ratings, surrounded by curiosity and fascination.
“Wh… Pardon?”
“I mean, I’ve never done it, can’t suck myself off and have no desire for anyone else’s.”
He’s unsure if the guy, Grimmy, is serious but the rest of the cabin watching intently gives a security that, serious or not, they wanted to know which, yes, is unusual. “It…It’s like eating pussy,” he prays his face isn’t as red as it feels hot, “salty, liquidy…except you’re choking.”
There’s a whisper, “What in the fuuuuck,” “He ate puss, too?!” then an exclaimed, “That’s badass, innit?”
Harry shrugs, this whole thing bizarre. “No, not… It’s just…blowjobs. I mean, you’ve received one before, yeah?”
“But that’s what gals do, you know, suck dick.”
Harry grimaces as a handful of “Naw, mate, ya got it twisted” variations ring out, Grimmy pleading he didn’t mean it like that while getting playfully roughed up. It’s oddly reassuring, how a somewhat crude conversation manages a line of dignity, albeit a shaky line but at least there is one. He expected a lot worse.
Once everyone calms down, they spread out and Harry’s one of the few who retreat to their bunk. He takes a notebook from his “leisure” knapsack and starts writing to Louis about the boring orientation and how he’s sharing quarters with 14 other guys, until realizing halfway down the page…that he might not want a letter. Pen frozen mid-word, he’s at a crossroad on whether to continue because the thought of Louis not wanting to hear from him really messes with his clarity, as does the thought of writing something he’ll never read. Either way is torture and he takes a deep breath, sighs, then keeps going for two additional pages front and back.
The next day, a barber cuts his long shaggy hair, surrounded by his bunkmates whooping and hollering. They’re loud, borderline obnoxious, yet he finds himself blushing at their enthusiasm, their openness, to him, a homosexual, a royal.
Then, the training starts…at 0500 hours every single morning, the leading hand shouting and shaking their bunks as he passes by. Some of the guys snore right through the commotion without a stir, others groan groggily and mutter obscenities, then there’s Harry, who’s a little slow while waking up but progresses easier than the rest. He feels legitimate guilt that he’s dressed first, unfair advantage of the early royal riser so evident as everyone but him struggles, and shakes each sleepyhead before heading to breakfast, pulling their blankets off and yanking their pillows from behind their head.
It takes a few weeks for his presence to normalize, where he can walk in a room without all faces snapping up to look at him and when he can sit without the unsubtle glances and whispers, just like all his other school experiences. He thinks about Louis during showers and sometimes late at night, otherwise forcing any thoughts away to avoid becoming a crying mess. Fuck, he misses him.
While everyone else receives mail from their parents in the form of baked goods and photos, Harry gets pretyped documents with his letterhead requiring his signature. Wishing some parliament member a speedy recovery, regrets on being unable to attend whatever event, accepting an appearance request from a children’s hospital, committing to some fundraising campaign whatever, he stops reading them.
The exhaustion hits him and his bunkmates a month in. The physicality of weight lifting and endurance fitness, maneuvering the campus grounds and always having to hurry somewhere. The mentality of intaking mass amounts of new information constantly, from coursework texts and instructors to hands-on exercises. It’s oddly nice knowing he isn’t the only one completely drained and somewhat suffering.
One weekend about halfway through training, he’s studying in the common room with a few others for a history exam on Monday when his leading hand (who oversees their group) pulls him aside, looking unsettled.
“I could get in trouble for this,” Ed murmurs. “We are under order to restrict the correspondence you receive to those of official matters only.”
Shocking, he thought.
“Granted, we’ve never donated so many…brassieres and undergarments,” Harry chuckles, the joys of fan mail, “but…”
Ed reaches inside his coat pocket and holds out a small envelope with handwriting that nearly makes Harry sob, hand trembling as he takes it.
Uncertain with displays of emotion, Ed clears his throat. “So, uh, I don’t know anything about…and I don’t need to know, it’s not my business, but the mail girl insisted, well, she threatened to do it herself if I didn’t.”
Harry stays silent, stunned.
“So, uh, should we keep with the royal restrictions or should we put…” he glances at the return address for the sender’s name, “smiley face with X eyes?…on the exempt list?”
“No,” he finally breaks from staring at the piece of mail, “mum checks that list, no doubt.”
Ed lifts his shoulders. “I mean, as of right now, there is no list, therefore there’s no list that she knows about, no list for her to check.”
Harry wants to hug him. In keeping his reaction tame, he thanks Ed and returns to his seat, sticking the envelope in the back of the book like a bookmark. He can’t lose focus now, matching battleships to years and commanders to wars already hard enough. What’s waiting another two days more?
***
Following the exam, they immediately have combat drills to wrap up the day, so they head to a nearby tavern afterwards because they’ve earned it.
“Wasn’t it battle of Pinkie?”
“No, Anglo…someone.”
“Anglo something, well, that narrows it down, now, dunnit?”
“Harry, shuddup.”
“Dutch?”
“Or French or Spanish or Italian.”
“Who the fuck cares, lads, raise ‘em up and chug ‘em down.”
Harry watches them all start chugging their steins as fast as possible, spilling down their chins and shirts but not letting up. He takes his first sip after someone declares victory, meekly resisting the pressure to, as one of them so eloquently stated, “slam that bitch down.” He does take the shot, though, to not be a pisser and that seems to satisfy everyone enough.
“You went with Alyssa, yeah, that heiress?” An hour later shifts the talk to, what else, women and he hesitantly nods. “D’ya bang her?”
His cheeks blush and he drinks in hopes that the glass can shield it. Plus, he doesn’t really want to answer.
Josh whacks the back of Grimmy’s head, “Bloody brash, you are,” and they bicker like the friends they’ve become. “He’s the prince, be respectful.”
“Oh, whatever–”
Harry cuts in, “No, no, no, that’s quite alright,” but it falls on deaf ears.
“–everyone else is talking about it, I’m fucking including him–”
“He’s not ‘everyone else,’ Nick–”
“Bullocks, he pounds the cunt and ass like everyone else.”
A voice from the counter behind them snarls, “Except ‘e’s a fuckin’ twinkie,” and Grimmy’s on his feet before it clicks for Harry what was said, throwing the man off his chair and to the ground. They scuffle, limbs flying at each other, as arms and yells try pulling them apart. Ed guides Harry away from the commotion but Harry shakes his head and continues to the door, an early departure for the night.
He’s upset but not for the obvious reasons. There’s people who disapprove of the monarchy’s existence and there’s people who disapprove of homosexuality, so he encompasses double the criticized traits than is typical. One of these traits are widespread, more common in the world to identify with.
The man could disapprove of both or just his homosexuality, it doesn’t matter, but what matters is there’s others like Harry that encounter disapproval like the man and sometimes, they encounter even worse.
The history textbook lays open on his bunk, yellow envelope sticking out tauntingly, and he grabs the book before flopping down, tossing it on the floor after tugging the envelope out. It can contain good news or bad news and the uncertainty makes him wonder if he can handle bad news right now, stressed from the day and disgusted from the night. He stares at the smiley face in the corner, trying to decode its inked eyes as if there’s a possibility. The whole situation blows and Louis doesn’t have to put up with it even though Harry does, so the fact he’s holding a letter has to mean something.
After a while, he concludes it can’t be the worst case scenario, could still be bad news, with no guarantee it’ll be good news.
Heart fluttering, his thumb rips the seal open and slides out the enclosed notecard which reads a short message. Like it or not, love, I’m not going anywhere.
Next morning, he goes to the mailroom with a stack of paper containing letters to Louis. The mail girl, Leigh-Anne, poorly hides her excitement as she bows awkwardly from behind the desk, disappearing momentarily from view and nearly hitting her head on the way up, and sputters a run-on sentence he’s too familiar with: how it’s such an honor to be graced by his presence (it isn’t), such a blessing to finally meet him (it’s not), and how today is the best day of her life (it won’t be).
“Are you the one who gave Ed that letter?” he interrupts, because he still needs to get breakfast.
Frowning, she lowers her head and nods. “I’m sorry, your royal highness,” his eye twitches, “I had no ill will and only positive intentions–”
“I’d like to thank you,” he cuts in again and her face snaps up to look at him, “and express my appreciation of your willingness to pass along something that didn’t qualify as official correspondence.”
“Ab-Absolutely, your royal highness–”
He sets his letters down and pats them. “I need to send these.”
She nods and has him place them on the scale, grabbing an envelope from under the desk. “It’s slightly over the standard weight, do you want the cost difference charged to your Cadet Credit?”
Eyes casting down to his letters sadly, he shakes his head. His mum would see the purchase on his monthly receipt and immediately question him; she already has for some transactions like transportation (taxis to the country club and car rentals for a camping weekend). “No thank you.” Smile shaky, he takes back the papers. “You’ve been most helpful.”
He makes to leave but, “Wait,” she stops him, “it’s okay, just…mail it.”
He creases his eyebrows. “What? No, you shouldn’t have to–”
“Don’t worry about it.” She holds the envelope out, waving it insistently. “You’re an inspiration to me and my girlfriend, it’s the least I can do.”
He grins at the unexpected sentiment but also at the proof that there are others like him out there, and they can be closer than he thinks.
***
Family Weekend finds Harry with his mum, Gemma, and the royal photographer for a Saturday morning of pictures as he conducts a tour for them in the whole naval outfit. He’s half surprised Alyssa isn’t with them. Gemma squeezes his bigger biceps and his mum unspontaneously chuckles. He points at absolutely nothing and they look on with interest. He takes their hands when going down steps as if they weren’t cobblestone but ice. They eat among the masses but sit with the school’s male commander and a female lieutenant who’s one of his instructors. Smile for the camera.
“Has he written?” he softly asks Gemma and her frown answers him. Keep smiling.
They’re gone by midafternoon. He arrives at lunch early so he can take food to go and avoid sitting alone. Not in the mood to meet his bunkmates’ families or put on a friendly face, he hides in the library, hardly a focal point when there’s ships to see.
Some enrollees leave for a night out with their parents, some leave to sleepover at their hotel or nearby home, while others will see them in the morning. He returns to his cabin and Louis’ notecard is on his pillow, not tucked in his backpack’s front zipper where he had it. His immediate (and only) thought is that his mum came back, couldn’t find him, went through his stuff and found it. He’s fucking terrified, because she must’ve found the new letters he hasn’t sent yet too. This, this is all bad, no good, just all bad.
Kneeling, he goes through his bag and finds his letters still there, a huge relief…and huge confusion. He grabs the notecard, looks the same, what the fuck… Did, shit, did one of the other parents snoop through his shit? Did his mum have someone snoop through his shit? He might trust his bunkmates more than his mother, quite honestly, at least regarding personal belongings.
He releases the card, lets it float to the floor, and checks the rest of his luggage. Money, laptop, documents, DVDs, mp3 player, designer clothes, nothing missing, what the actual fuck.
He sits back, glares at his stuff, bewildered, then glances at the notecard…and the scribbled message is shorter, words different from what it should be but handwriting the same. It reads the courts and he sprints.
The grounds are deserted like any other night so the lone figure by the fence is his target and as he nears, the figure’s height and curves become familiar, then does the hair outline and face shape, then it all distorts behind his tears and he collapses but it’s okay because Louis catches him…Louis is fucking there.
He cries and cries for some time, uninterrupted and engulfed by those arms, into that chest, can feel that heartbeat, that breathing… When he looks up, sees that face, his emotions hit the restart button and he sobs hard all over again.
Bugs chased Louis inside the courts almost immediately, taking them through the gate and sitting against the closest net while Harry broke down on his lap, unaware that they even moved. He’s crying but not as much, too consumed by Harry, his shaking body, his wet cheeks, just Harry, his Harry. He remembers how he felt returning from tour, how he could’ve broke down if not for the party around them, how Harry held him together. He knows how Harry’s feeling, lets him let it out, patient.
The first time their eyes meet, it’s not for long before Harry’s hiding in his shirt. The second time, Harry forces himself to not look away despite how much he must be ugly crying but he wants to see Louis, wants to get under control so he can see Louis. Louis cradles his face, whispers it’s okay, and he closes his eyes just for a moment then nods, locks in those blue eyes.
Louis knows anything he says might press the “emotion reset” so he tries for the least emotional thing he can think of, gently scratching the back of Harry’s neck. “I like your haircut.”
Harry laughs, wide grin not falling when he sniffs, and Louis feels like he falls in love all over again, the cuff of his sleeve wrapping around the tip of Harry’s drippy nose as an impromptu tissue. Harry’s eyes well up at the (gross) gesture, so he tries another, “Snot a big deal.”
“Christ almighty, Lou.” Louis chuckles, still cradles his face, strokes his cheekbones, takes in his beautiful prince whom he missed so fucking much, wills himself to keep it together because it’ll keep Harry together. “I.” Harry exhales then slowly inhales deep, forehead wrinkling and smoothing a couple times, all in thought. “I… Thank you and I’m sorry, so so fucking sorry–”
“Yeah yeah,” Louis dismisses, carefully bringing their lips together because he put the question mark on them, put the question mark in Harry’s mind when he didn’t deserve it. He fucking knows Harry doesn’t have a say in his life, this isn’t fucking news, and it shouldn’t have taken him any time to remember but alas it did. The fact they’re right here right now…gives him hope and he prays it gives Harry hope too. He whispers firmly, “You don’t be sorry. Hear me?” Harry whimpers, uncertain. “You can’t do anything, I get it…but I can. And you’ll have me and you’ll have love and you’ll have everything of me–”
Harry flings forward, kisses him hard, and they easily lose themselves in each other.
***
“I hate it here.”
“Don’t blame you,” Louis jokes, combing Harry’s hair, “it’s hardly a palace.”
“Piss off.” They’re lying on the court, Louis’ jacket behind his head and Harry curled around him. “It. It’s not for me, you know, this-this…this physical torture, this… I’m not a fighter, to fight, combat, I’m not straight, I’m not a fighter. And the lads are so messy and vulgar.”
“A couple more months, yeah, then you’re free?”
“I dunno.” He grips Louis’ shirt, grinding his teeth. “She’ll likely send me on a non-hostile deployment.” He sighs and rolls on top of Louis, chin on his chest, doesn’t want to talk about himself anymore. “What about you? Album’s about done yeah?”
“It released two, three months ago.” Harry whines, missing out on these milestones and achievements, unaware of what’s happening in Louis’ life, all a punch to the gut. Louis reads his face, quickly adds, “Got okay reviews. Toooons of speculation on which songs are about you.”
“Really?”
“Mhm.” Louis slides his hands below Harry’s white pants, squeezes twice. “Just wrapped the shows up here. Head for rest of Europe next week.”
“Busy?”
“So, so busy.” He laughs, “I’ve gotten Liam so irritated at me, he’s stressed the hell out.”
“He won’t make it out alive with you,” Harry agrees. Louis gasps, “That’s what I told him! He’ll loosen out eventually, always does.”
Then, something clicks in Harry’s mind. “How are you here? Like, how did you get in? How did you get here? Don’t you have–”
“Magic.” Harry slowly shakes his head, Louis squeezing his ass again but not letting go, Hands are to remain above the waist and below the shoulders, and bites his bottom lip. “You in this getup, with the scarf, it’s quite hot. Giving me some thoughts.”
Harry smirks, presses his hips down. Public displays of affection will be modest and contained. “What kind?”
“Tying your wrists. Gagging your mouth.” He kneads his fingers, nails digging in Harry’s briefs. “Tightening it around your neck, choking you juuust a bit.”
Vision glazed over, Harry straddles him and scoots up so they’re face to face, nose to nose, movement rubbing their crotches together. Louis whispers, “Have you let anyone else touch you?” and Harry shakes his head. “Me neither.”
Harry pushes his tongue in Louis’ mouth, There will be no open mouth-to-mouth contact outside of the holdings in the royal trust, heart lightened that they stayed true to their feelings, faithful to their love, despite the uncertainty on both sides. It’s not just the physical loyalty that makes him elated but how their emotional loyalty hadn’t strayed and carried them, controlled them. That said, neither have been touched since their last time too, too long ago and here they are now, deprived and anxious.
Louis’ palms help Harry roll their hips with more pressure, gliding under his briefs to feel his warmwarm smooth skin and making him hum happily. They’re both hard in no time, lips locked and bodies abuzz, arousal quickly building in the pits of their stomachs and blurring their heads. Sexual activities are to take place in royal residences only. Louis runs a hand further down Harry’s ass, pulling him closer, then traces Harry’s entrance with a teasing fingertip that makes him nearly lose his mind, grinding erratically and whining desperately.
Louis smiles in the kiss, soft circles pushing his finger deeper, and Harry lets out a long moan against his lips, eyelids heavy and body freezing so he can take it all, feel the smooth probe. He doesn’t start truly stretching until the second finger disappears inside of him, engulfed in tightness and igniting a heat throughout his loins. Every small movement, pulling out and curling in, twisting and crossing, is better than the last and Louis stares amazed as he works, deliberate and slow.
“Fuck, you feel good,” Harry breathes out, “do me so good, fuck I’ve missed you, Louis, so so much.”
“I know, love.” He angles his fingers, brushing his prostate, then rocks his hips up so there’s double the friction. Harry shrieks but bites Louis’ shoulder to muffle himself, loosely tugs on his hair. “I’m here now.”
He adds a third finger and Harry almost screams, shifts until he’s mounted atop one of Louis’ legs, inner knee directly in front of his crotch so that he rubs it when grinding down. Louis slightly bends his leg to give Harry better leverage for rolling forward, for humping with all his weight, and gasps at how fucking much of a difference it makes, trembles each time Harry thrusts on his hard dick. He demands quietly, “Kiss me,” and moans around Harry’s tongue, although Harry’s mouth is open as he heavily pants.
“Plea-Please, Lou.” He unzips and wiggles a hand in the front of Louis’ jeans, grip shaky as he squeezes in tight strokes and Louis has never felt anything more incredible. “Love, please.”
Louis roughly grabs Harry’s hair and keeps their lips forcibly together, full of tongues and dripping drool. Harry’s bassy moans vibrate off his tongue and down his throat, rousing straight to his cock that Harry’s touching sosomagicallysoperfect and he whimpers into a building orgasm. Entirely consumed by Harry and his body, being there, under him, with him, how he can send shivers down Harry’s spine with a flick of the wrist, how Harry enthusiastically ruts against him, makes the sweetest noises…
Too consumed to realize he’s a shaking mess, stammering a blend of ohharryshitloveohgodfuckah that morphs into a loud sob, crying out in near hysterics because ohharryshitloveohgodfuckah. Harry immediately comes from how godly, how fucking precious this creature is, he’s royalty but Louis’ godly to him. Christ almighty.
Underwear filled with semen and lined with sweat, Louis shamelessly strips them off, shakes out his pants from the lingering white residue before putting them back on, and Harry still sees perfection.
“Come on, I’ll cover you.” Louis flaps his jacket, briefs tossed over the net. “It’s the middle of the night, any dream of public nudity should be fulfilled right now.”
Harry wrinkles his nose, sitting crossed legged. Skin exposure will be limited to activities involving direct contact with water for ladies and in the proximity of water for gentlemen. “I do not have such a dream.”
“Really?” Harry nods and Louis tilts his head in thought. “Huh. I always figured, like, okay, I have a theory about public figures, right, me and Niall do, about public figures and exhibiti–”
“Come back down here.” Harry holds his arms out. “Please.”
“Only if I can have your cute little scarf.”
***
“Is there some way, some address I can use to get my letters to you?” Harry’s fingers fidget the front of Louis’ shirt. “Not just for you, but it’s for me, too, it makes me think I’m talking to–”
“Shh.” Louis gently kisses him. “I…” He sighs. “I, not really but, I can get you a list of hotel nights so you can send them before we check-in, and overnights, too, since I’ll be in one place.”
“Overnights?”
Louis hums. “Staying somewhere for more than a night, multiple shows, maybe a gap day,” he chuckles, “if we’re so blessed.”
“I’d like that,” Harry clears his throat, “if it’s not a problem–”
“You shush.” Louis tousles Harry’s hair, brings him close, under his arm. “I’m sorry I put doubt in your mind.” He holds a hand in Harry’s face when he attempts to speak, then slowly turns his wrist to show the ring on his finger. “See this? You… You trusted me, believed in me, this-this ring, the gesture, it’s everything to me, Harry, everything.” He pulls the necklace out from under his collar, the same one Harry gave him, and over his head, a ring dangling from it. “I trust you and believe in you, our love, us. You have me, no matter what, for as long as you want. I promise. Happy belated anniversary.”
***
That night, Harry listens to the album on YouTube. Every night after, he falls asleep holding the ring close to his heart.
Louis writes him more, sometimes with postcards from the other three or silly photos, like Liam holding the Eiffel Tower in his palm or Zayn leaning against the Tower of Pisa. Harry sends multiple letters in one package three days before the band’s set to check into a hotel or arrive at a venue for overnights. Leigh-Anne gives him free special delivery postage, requiring an addressee signature and Louis’ recipient signature, and shows him tracking updates each morning until the two signatures are scanned.
She smiles, “You really love him, huh?”
He nods. “He really…truly loves me.”
***
Alyssa attends the graduation parade with his entire family and Gemma does her best to keep the girl behind her shoulder, going so far as to hold her son on her hip at one point.
He sort of welcomes Aly’s presence when everyone mingles following the ceremony, it keeps his mother away and cuts the introductions of his bunkmates’ families short. He missed her, always liked her but not the role she played in his orchestrated life, and they hadn’t talked much since his announcement, so they mostly catchup.
After she talks about interning at Christie’s, he asks, “What has mum told you?”
“Nothing you don’t already know.” She looks down at her Burberry heels. “You do know I’ve only wanted to make things easier for you. That you’ve given me plenty reason to not be at her beckon call because I have that choice, Harry, there’s a line of perfectly suitable women ready to step in. If you want them to, I can understand.”
“Aly.” He takes her hands, waits for her to look up at him. “You’ve been an angel for me, second only to Louis. I-I would rather have you by my side than some other waiting-in-line girl, because I’ve known you since you vomited on my lap first year.”
She laughs, hiding her face in her shoulder. Two months into their first semester, she had gotten absolutely smashed during a party in the basement of one of the dorms. She fell to the floor next to where Harry sat, dizzy from her spinning head and throat bubbling in that sour taste. She crept onto her knees, leaned against the armrest to brace herself for the anticipated vomit, and let it out…all onto Harry’s white shirt. He had played it off so cool, dragging her to the men’s bathroom with him to spare her embarrassment from the others, that rumors of their sudden disappearance didn’t include any mention of it; no one seemed to notice what happened. It’s one secret shared moment they have for themselves.
“It sucks, and I know it sucks. And it’s not fair what this family is asking of you, I acknowledge that.” He puts a hand on her cheek, thumb rubbing her jaw. “I promise you, you’ll have answers soon. I won’t let you live life loveless, Aly, I won’t.”
She tears up, whispers, “I-I know,” and he embraces her because honestly, it’s not just him and Louis that his mum is fucking with; Aly is put through the emotional grinder just as much and that isn’t lost on Harry, not at all. She’s declined prospects, been by his side and on his side even after the announcement. Her pure, selfless heart commits to his happiness and that’s something he neither takes for granted nor forget.
***
Photos of the parade and reception are published, Aly and Harry front page in each other’s arms.
Liam, Niall, and Zayn are nervous about Louis’ reaction…except that he seems relieved. “You lads realize, when she’s in the picture, literally, he and I are at our happiest.”
“How-How can you…be so certain?”
Louis rolls his eyes. “We got off by dry humping each other on a tennis court.”
That, they realize, makes some (strange) sense.
***
As expected, Harry is commissioned to a six-month deployment in the Celtic.
Unexpectedly, Louis is assigned a girlfriend by his management. Niall and Cassandra had broken up, Liam had an on-and-off girl back home, and Zayn somehow slipped into a bad boy bachelor persona. The girl, Perrie, is part of a girl-trio who also appeared on a season of X-Factor and their debut album was about to be released, so they opened for One Direction during the North American leg of the tour and it was a convenient match.
Perrie is nice, a bit naive still but overall level-headed. She asks about his relationship with Harry and for advice about life on the road, living on top of your bandmates, handling the exhaustion that creeps up after a couple demanding weeks.
***
Louis tells Harry about Perrie on a phone call. Harry’s quiet for a few moments, thinks how his mum is going to have a field day with this, then remarks, “She understands, though, right?”
“Yeah, she’s cool with it.”
It makes Harry nervous. It shouldn’t, all things considered, but Perrie’s placement is new and they’re traveling together, are around each other non-stop… His palm covers the ring outline below his neck, a reminder of how and why they’ve gotten this far. He doesn’t need to worry.
***
The tour ends about a month and a half before the end of Harry’s deployment. The boys spend the first week sleeping, talking only to food deliverers, and leaving bed only to answer the door or go to the bathroom. Harry knows Louis’ wiped and doesn’t bother calling until the second week.
“It’s like you don’t know how much sleep you lacked until you start sleeping.”
Harry laughs. “Such wisdom. Are you feeling a bit better then?”
‘Yeah, yeah, a bit.” Louis rubs his face then yawns, Harry giggling at the sound. “Can’t you tell?”
“I can.” Harry licks his lips and sighs sadly. “I can’t wait to see your face again. To hold you again.”
“The second week of July?”
“Second Monday, yeah.”
“Can… Can I be there when…?”
Harry’s soft exhale is his answer and Louis’ heart drops. “I can come over Thursday. I have the welcoming hoopla and knighting, then a quick visitation to–”
“Knighting?” Louis backtracks, heart dropping even more, dropping to his damn feet.
Harry huffs jokingly. “It’s nothing, just initials that get added to my name on invitations and announcements,” which doesn’t comfort Louis as he had hoped and he repeats, “Thursday?”
***
Aly and his mum greet him at the harbor, his shipmates lined up on the pier to receive handshakes from the queen and prince, Aly one step behind and giving each a nod and smile. She retreats back to the car during the photographs with the task force.
Harry sleeps all afternoon until the homecoming gala, where Aly informs him that Anne has her staying in the palace until the week’s end. She attends the knighting service and reception on Tuesday, and accompanies him to visit injured military personnel and the hosted luncheon afterwards on Wednesday. He lets her know on Thursday he’s leaving and may not see her before she’s gone, but expresses his gratitude and appreciation for her company since coming back.
“Your mother would like to speak with you.”
Well. Fuck.
He finds her in her office, phone to her ear and pen writing hastily, and sits as she carries on in French, which he’s not fluent in but thinks he hears words for international and embassy.
“Glad I was able to catch you on your way out,” she mocks after hanging up, hands folded on the desk. Of course she knew; her palace has her ears. “How’s being home so far?”
“I was about to go and make it perfect, actually.”
“You are not going anywhere. I forbid you from any contact with Mr. Tomlinson going forward.”
He creases his eyebrows and she opens a desk drawer. “You said that was for during training.”
She reveals a stack of papers and his stomach churns as she pounds them on her desk. He should’ve put Louis’ letters in his vault the first day he got back but forgot amidst the busy schedule. She interrogates, “You disobeyed me, disrespected my wishes, compromised my trust and your future.” He slouches in shame and foolishness, and she lifts the top page to read, “Lovely Louis, it’s official: I’m a Second Lieutenant. It doesn’t mean much except that I’m very nearly complete and will soon enough be coming home. I know you won’t be home when I get back but I’ll be there waiting for when you do.”
She shakes her head, shuffles a few pages, and reads a different one. “Lovely Louis, I listened to the album again last night and hearing your voice breaks through the chaos of my mind. I’ve had so much chaos lately, love, and I wish you were here to break through it.”
Head shake, shuffles, reads, “Lovely Louis…”
He’s sensing a pattern, the letters written and unsent by him, none written or sent by Louis. He kept them all in the same place, the same pocket of his bag, and looking at the size of the pile on her desk, those weren’t all of them, couldn’t be. Puzzled, he knows he didn’t unpack them, so where the hell…?
“I safely assume you managed to mail others successfully. Regardless, my intention was for you to focus and you did not.”
“Mum–”
“You are not allowed to leave the palace except for your royal duties or with accompaniment by Alyssa.” He swallows hard, grinding his teeth. “I don’t give a damn if the bloody place is on fire outside your bedroom door, Harold.”
He dully counters, “Isn’t that reckless endangerment?”
She leans forward, gripping the papers tight in her fingers. “Isn’t this?” She bares her teeth. “Isn’t what you do behind my back, God knows what? Isn’t how you flew a redeye to America reckless endangerment? Isn’t how you fucked a man on a hotel balcony reckless endangerment? Isn’t everything you’ve done since you met that boy, reckless endangerment?”
***
He turns off his phone and sobs to sleep. It’s been a while but the queen finally got under his skin.
***
Mr. Martin wakes him two days later for some event he apparently agreed to, breakfast tray with a large latte and assorted food at the foot of his bed. He murmurs a thanks once he’s sitting up and doesn’t move to take anything, so Mr. Martin puts the coffee mug in his hands.
“Can I bail out?” Harry asks. “What was it for again?”
“Disabled children of parent addicts, sir.” Harry groans, because fuck he can’t not go to something like that. “The soiree won’t be more than three mandatory hours, seeing as the children have a strict bedtime to reinforce a structured way of life.”
“Right.”
Mr. Martin watches Harry chug half his latte before, “If I may…” and Harry nods, waves his hand. Mr. Martin reaches inside his suit jacket and holds out a thick folded stack of, “Mr. Tomlinson’s correspondence, sir.”
Harry gags on his coffee but who the fuck cares. “Marty–”
He smirks, sets the bundle down on his bedside table, declares, “Your life is dedicated to the throne. Mine is dedicated to its heir.”
***
During the family Sunday dinner, Anne reminds everyone of the “weekly family appearances” and this week included his and Gemma’s cousin’s wedding. Aly would sit in the back, Harry would be Gemma’s date, and her husband would see to the children. At such news, he and Gemma exchanged a mutual look that needed no clarification.
Simon had been interfering with her life more once Harry left, a push of “you are royalty” and a pull of “you are woman.” Gemma disliked the sudden nosiness and its potential influence on her children, as did her husband.
This wedding would be a statement for them both, a long overdue statement.
***
Harry and Gemma’s family ride in the same carriage up to the chapel. Her husband exits first (normal), helps his wife down the steps (normal), they make sure Harry doesn’t fall out (standard) before walking up to the church (not normal), leaving Harry in sole supervision of their children (not normal). Of course their son would trip and fall instead (not normal) and Harry laughs because he looks exactly like him when he was that age. The child gazes up at his uncle, preparing to cry as kids do, and Harry takes his hand, “On three, jump super high,” and his niece decides that includes her, too, and he barely catches her tiny flying body while yanking her brother to his feet.
Harry thinks he got the short end of the stick on this one.
He waves at the crowd, tells the kids to do the same, then leads them up to the entrance where the archbishop and dean greet them and direct an usher for them.
“You gonna do it?” Gemma whispers when their mother arrives, everyone standing as she slowly walks down the aisle to their pew.
*****
He catches Aly’s attention, nods toward the exit, and she quietly excuses herself while tiptoeing through.
“What is your grand plan?” she asks once they’re outside, lifting his nephew to hurry up the pace.
Harry takes them through the courtyard and stables to a handful of waiting cars, Mr. Martin standing next to one. “My plan is for you to meet Louis.”
***
Right before Harry knocks on Louis’ door, he sees the nervousness all over Aly’s face and pulls her close under his arm. “I promised. Okay?” She bites her bottom lip. “We’re all on the same side, love, okay?”
She inhales slowly, nods, smiles shakily.
He, too, inhales slowly. He is the one who stood up Louis after all and Aly reads his face, too, squeezes and holds his hand. Then he knocks and they wait.
The lock clicks, knob turns, hinges squeak, door opens, and there’s…Perrie.