Archive of Our Own

Nicholas. Then.

Nicholas was grateful for the manservant who had neglected to take from him his hat and walking stick. He clutched both now in his hands, possibly ruining at least the hat’s integrity, but it gave him something to do as he waited.

At length, he was beckoned into a room he had not previously seen. “This way, Mr Grimshaw,” the servant indicated.

The room was bright - brighter, really, than most rooms of this size in London had any right to be. He thought, in passing, how utterly strange it was that London be flooded with sunlight on such a day. How superfluous of it, really.

“Mr Grimshaw!” Mr Styles stood up and greeted him, hand-first. He was all affability, but something in his stance told Nicholas this was a man with a new worry. And why shouldn’t he be - Nicholas’s presence was nothing if not alarming. At the very least, unusual and therefore subject to a certain scrutiny.

“Mr Styles, Mrs Styles - thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” Nicholas said, his voice steady and calm. To his own ears, it felt unlike anything he normally sounded. Mrs Styles smiled at him as he took her hand for a kiss. It startled him anew how very much like her son she was. Bright, open. Beautiful. The way Harry’s chin animated any time he spoke - that was from his mother. The eyes, too.

Dread rising, Nicholas let go of her hand.

“I must - “ His voice broke off, and he gave a cough. It stuck in his throat.

“Wilkins, please get us some water,” Mr Styles said matter-of-factly, and the servant silently slipped from the room before Nicholas could object. He would much rather have this be over and done with. He realised he was still clutching his hat and walking stick in one hand and now felt awkward with it, not knowing what to do next. It was as if he was back in school, the poor scholarship boy amidst so much of high society’s progeny. His heart beat unevenly within his chest.

“Please, do sit down,” Mr Styles urged him.

Nicholas, grateful for direction, sat. He laid his hat on his lap, attempting to lounge, and failing miserably.

Watching him carefully, Mr Styles continued. “I trust you must know Harry is currently out?”

Nicholas dropped his gaze to his lap before licking his lips and nodding. “I am aware. In fact,” he lifted his gaze. “That is why I have come now.”

Mrs Styles looked suddenly much more alert, darting an almost imperceptible momentary look towards her husband. Nicholas became acutely aware of a desire to be elsewhere - literally, anywhere else but here, a place where he has willingly come to see himself ruined. The urge to run, and run fast, nearly dizzied him.

Instead, he said, “I appreciate you - both of you,” he added, addressing both of his hosts in turn, “meeting me on such short notice. I would not have - I would not have inconvenienced you so if I did not feel it to be a matter of the utmost importance.”

Mr Styles frowned, visibly moving to the edge of his seat. “What is it, Mr Grimshaw? Pray, do not keep us waiting…”

“Are you quite well?” Mrs Styles interrupted, laying a gentle hand on her husband’s, but keeping her gaze locked with Nicholas’s. “Wilkins will be here any minute with the water, but may we offer you something stronger? You are quite pale.”

Nicholas swallowed against his dry throat. The urge for drink, he could admit to himself, was overwhelming. However, he had a duty to perform first. The drink - the drink would come later. Lots of it, he trusted. Enough for the oblivion he sought.

“Thank you, Madam, I appreciate your concern. Water will suffice.”

As if on cue, Wilkins entered with a tray. Once he was done filling up with their glasses, he left the tray closest to Nicholas, and exited with a polite nod. Nicholas reached for the nearest glass, took a swallow. It did nothing to quell the desire to run.

But it was time.

“I fear I have made you wait too long,” he began. His hands took on a tremble, and he drew them into fists around the brim of his damned hat. He dropped it carelessly next to the tray the next moment. “I apologise. I… That it, as you know…” He had gathered the words he had needed before coming here. But now, faced with the paling faces of Harry’s parents, all the readied phrases and words abandoned him at once. Before he knew what he was doing, he was up and out of the chair, striding towards the fireplace. He could not watch them. Not when he was so filled with guilt, and shame, and dread, with a healthy dose of revulsion towards himself.

Both of his hosts were silent, waiting, and for that, he was pathetically grateful.

Turning a small china figurine of a shepherdess between his fingers, Nicholas found his tongue once more. “As you are both aware, Harry and I have become close friends over these last few months.”

He heard an assenting noise from Mrs Styles.

“I -” God. What could he possibly say that would not have him run from his house in bellowed rage and utter disgrace? He had long accepted his nature, had even grown to believe it was not the sin nor crime it was purported to be, but now. Now he could no longer recall the reasons for believing he was not an invert, a - a seducer, and dangerous to those around him. He leaned on the mantle for support. “I beg of you now to...to hear me through before responding. I realise that I am in no position to ask any favours at all, but if - if you would allow me to tell the tale in full, I would be...exceptionally grateful.”

After a long pause, Mr Styles replied, tone urgent and alarmed. “Of course. Please, do go on.” Mrs Styles’s face looked pinched, her mouth tight with worry.

Nicholas shut his eyes and nodded, still facing the mantle and the bland painting of a landscape that hung above it. “Thank you.” He licked his lips, turned on a whim towards his hosts, then jerked away, striding towards the nearest bookshelf. Whilst mentally reading off the titles his eyes found there, he marshaled his words. “As I said, you know that Harry and I have become close friends. I wish that I - that I could say - no. No, that is not right.” He frowned, fingering the nearest volume to him - The Definitive Dictionary of Estate Law, how dreadful - and cleared his throat. “In short, in fact… In fact…” Just do it, he told himself. This is the hardest part. Like jumping off a cliff. If only he did not have to be there for the fallout. “In fact, it has become - more.” His voice cracked, and he hated himself so viciously in that one moment. “We have fallen in love.” He’d said that quieter, and stopped, waiting.

The Styleses were true to their word. That, or they had simply been rendered speechless. He dared not look upon them, not even for a moment.

In the dense silence that followed, Nicholas found his tongue once more. “I will not importune you with details of this, nor attempt to deny that it rather looks as if I have...imposed myself upon him. Ruined him, in fact. Sullied his youth, his innocence.” He shut his eyes, taking a deep breath. “But that is not why I am here. I am here because Harry has begun talk of running away.”

Finally, the coward that he was, he turned to face his hosts. What he saw in their faces did not make him wish to jump off a real cliff any less. But he had to go on. He had to get this over and done with.

Now that the worst was done, the words came more readily. A fortifying breath was all it took to continue. “To put it bluntly, in his youthful abandon, Harry has appeared to have lost all reason.” He could not help the smile that tugged at his lips, feeling all the more grotesque for it. “He has convinced himself that the only way he could be happy is to run away - with me. Or, even without me, actually, as he indicated recently. In his - in his naiveté, I believe he has failed to see all the implications behind this. And I could not, in good conscience, allow him to ruin himself or your family, for something that - that could never be. I care - too deeply for him to allow this to take place.”

He turned abruptly away, leaning on the bookshelf for support. The floors, he noted, were scuffed where he stood. For a wild moment, he wondered how often Harry had been in this room. Stared at these books.

“I could not see the person I love more dearly than any other be brought to ruin simply because of… me.” he finally continued. “I have tried to reason with him, but he is stubborn as a mule, to be honest.” He thought he heard a small sound behind him, as if Mrs Styles was caught between horror and laughter. What an absurd situation. What a way to end his life in society he had worked and fought so hard for. “I grew frightened. The last time we spoke, he was - he was concocting a ridiculous, thoughtless plan, and I thought of all that he does not yet know.” The stink of poverty. The way polite faces look through you as if you were nothing but air, standing between them and their goal. A wisp of nothingness, at best. A disgusting nuisance, at worst. “I am sure I do not need to tell you of all that would befall your family if he acted on his plans.” He glanced at his audience for a brief moment. Mrs Styles’s face was hidden in one of her hands, the other laying listless by her side, clutching a crumpled handkerchief. Mr Styles’s face was - inscrutable. Nicholas looked away. “Yourselves, Miss Styles… Harry, himself. All disgraced.”

Nicholas ran a hand over his face, feeling it flame under the touch. Best have it done with.

He swept away from the bookcase and came to stand directly in front of Harry’s parents. “I implore you,” he said, watching as Mrs Styles’s stricken face looked into his own. “Not to punish him for this, but simply to keep him safe. Once I am gone from here, I shall be gone forever.” He took a deep breath. “In fact, it is probably past time I went.”

He turned, reaching for his abandoned hat and walking stick, when he heard Mr Styles’s arresting and urging, “Please. Wait.”

Nicholas wished very acutely to take his leave, but he owed this man his attention. He had, after all, given his to Nicholas.

He turned around and waited. Mr Styles had risen from his seat, and was now facing him on his own level. Well, not entirely. It was forever Nicholas’s destiny to tower over most people. He felt gawkish, ridiculous. He felt, as he did most times, very much the clown. One glance down to Mrs Styles confirmed what he had suspected - she was red-eyed, her hand clutching a handkerchief to her mouth. She was looking beyond him, not making a sound.

“I - we owe you a debt of gratitude,” Mr Styles said, forcing Nicholas’s gaze up to his. It was easy enough to tell what every word was costing him.

Nicholas swallowed deeply, could not speak.

“I am angry. I am upset,” he went on, causing Nicholas’s face to flame up once more. God, here it came. Here was his sentence. “But your honesty, sir, is appreciated. I cannot and will not condone what you have d-done with my son.” His gaze dropped, red spots appearing on his greying cheeks. “You took a hell of a chance, letting us know this. And you have endeavoured to save our family from ruin,” he continued. “I shall not report you, nor shall I pursue any other course of action that would - that could sully you.”

Nicholas’s gaze shot up to meet the other man’s. Still, words would not come.

“You...you care for Harry,” Mr Styles went on, quietly. “You’ve risked your reputation. You have acted...honourably.”

Nicholas could not believe the words that he was hearing. He had taken his man’s son and turned him into an invert, and yet, here he stood, giving Nicholas back his life. All Nicholas could do was nod, once.

“Do you - is there anything else you wish to say?” Mr Styles asked.

Nicholas searched wildly for his wishes. Did he have anything else to say? He would walk out of this room, and out of this house, and never see Harry again. If there was anything else he wished to say, it eluded him.

Except...except, perhaps, for one thing. “Yes,” he croaked. “If… I realise that this request is - outlandish and beyond what I have earned, so - so very much beyond, and possibly without any - “

“What is it, Mr Grimshaw?” Mr Styles asked, interrupting his babbling.

“If you would be so kind,” Nicholas said, his hands sweating and heart beating wildly, “as to allow me to send a note to Harry, explaining myself… I promise you that will be the last that he will hear from me.”

Mr Styles frowned, but after an agonizing minute, he nodded once, slowly. “Very well. I believe we may owe you this much.”

Nicholas nearly sagged in relief, knowing that, in fact, they owed him nothing. “I thank you. I shall not importune you any longer.”

He turned from the man, looked down at Mrs Styles. She met his gaze, but he could not read her face. His nod in her direction was shaky and weak.

He strode towards the door, put a hand on the handle. “Harry loves you all very much,” he said quietly. “Please be kind to him. He…will not take this well. And he is so very young.”

When he swung the door open and stepped out onto the landing, it was to be faced with the last person he had expected to face ever again.

Harry was bright-eyed, having just clearly come back from a walk, and his gaze, when it landed on Nicholas, turned instantly alarmed. He was always, Nicholas reflected, more astute than was good for anyone. He was also, as always, too beautiful, even in his panic.

Nicholas found he could not speak. In his mind, they were already forbidden. In his mind, they were already in the past.

He moved to walk right past Harry, for his throat had closed and become clogged up and useless, but Harry caught his elbow, then called out his name. When their gazes locked, Nicholas felt his tongue dislodge. He owed this boy this much, at least. He wanted - he wanted to be kind, even in his calculated yet necessary betrayal. He wished for him to understand.

“Do not be cavalier with the life you’ve got, Harry,” he said quietly, painfully aware of Mr Styles now looming in the doorway of his study. “Do not throw your future away,” he implored.

Harry’s bright eyes began to fill with tears. It tore at Nicholas’s heart in a way that scared him more than anything else had on this wretched day. “No, no, no,” Harry began to chant, his gaze never leaving Nicholas, beseeching Nicholas to unmake what could no longer be unmade.

Slowly, hating himself and everything he had done, Nicholas took his arm away, and, without looking back, tore down the stairs. He donned his hat and flew out of the house as soon as the footman opened the door for him.

He hailed a cab, throwing the coins at the driver along with his address, and shut himself off from the busy, noisy street.

He did not remember the ride back.

Harry. Now.

“Fix your cravat,” Nicholas commanded in a perfunctory tone, and Harry immediately reached for his throat, making adjustments. But two minutes, and his parents would be in front of him. He watched the progress of their coach, utterly mesmerised. “Breathe.” Nicholas’s tone grew warmer. He was watching the approaching carriage as well, and Harry could tell without looking at him that he was a bundle of twitchy nerves. Even Hound was picking up on all the pomp and circumstance, sitting with such unusual obedience between them that Harry wondered if the dog was ill.

His parents informed him of their upcoming visit without question or preamble - it was given simply as a fact. A happy fact, all told, but a fact nonetheless. That had been a month ago. The preparations for their visit had had the entire household in an uproar for the better part of those four weeks. Madame Romilly, who regularly terrified Harry with her cool efficiency that could, he imagined, take down nations, had been in the most frantic state he'd ever seen her because of it. It was possible that he owed the rest of the staff generous gifts come next Christmas, for he would not wish her wrath upon his worst enemies.

All the staff were lined up now in the precise order of importance, and Harry thought he could feel little Amandine, Cook’s assistance, quaking in her skirts.

Nicholas, for his part, had played the part of competent caretaker as well as could be expected – more, actually, if Harry was honest with himself – but the strain of it all had taken its toll in the last week or so. He would not say so, of course. Even now, after nearly six years together, Nicholas hardly let himself be taken care of. Always the light-hearted jester with a heart big enough for the whole world, and never one to suffer mollycoddling, he infuriated Harry. Infuriated, maddened, and forced such deep affection from him, Harry could barely breathe sometimes.

All Harry could do, really, was reassure him that there was absolutely nothing to worry over, although he felt as if his words more often than not went in one ear and out the other. It was difficult to Harry to see what, precisely, had Nicholas in such a state of agitation, but he could wager a guess or two.

Harry, naturally, had little worry in that regard. It had, after all, been his very parents who had orchestrated this happy ending for them both. He could hardly believe that they would now snatch it all away somehow. It simply did not warrant a consideration.

But Nicholas’s worries had gnawed at Harry’s heart.

And then, the carriage was rounding its last bend and coming to a full stop, pebbles and dust kicking up like fireworks under its wheels. That was when Hound made his agitated, excited move, but Nicholas stilled the dog with a quiet and precise, “Hound. Stay.” Harry would have found more amusement in the way the dog’s ears turned immediately down, but just then, the driver was opening the door, and his gaze locked with his father’s for the first time in three years.

Nicholas. Then.

Nicholas was nearly asleep when the knock came. He shuddered out of his light doze with an undignified sort of snort and cough, and his head began to pound the very next moment.

God, who could be – he had explicitly forbidden his man to disturb him unless the house was on fire, and he imagined that if, in fact, the house was currently on fire, knocking would not be the way to wake him.

He sat up in his chair, wincing at every muscle that twinged and ached as he did so, and carefully set down the empty glass that had been threatening to slip through his fingers. He ran a hand through his hair, then over his cheek. The day-old growth rasped against his palm. He smelled sour, as if whisky was attempting to escape his body through his very skin.

Another knock.

“Urgh, come in,” he croaked. God, he hoped this was not an emergency of any sort. He was fairly certain he would be the least qualified person to be dealing with an emergency in his current state.

Murray, normally quite unflappable, looked rather piqued and harried as he walked through the doorway.

“What is it?” Nicholas asked irritably. He knew he was being unreasonable. After all, it was barely afternoon, and he was already drunk beyond repair. But he had asked not to be disturbed.

“Forgive me, sir, but Mr Chaloner and Miss Phillips are here to see you,” his man announced.

Nicholas sighed and dropped his face into his hands, rubbing at his eyes in a futile attempt to clear his head. “I thought I made it expressly clear I was not seeing anybody this week.”

“I - yes, sir. However, Miss Phillips was - quite insistent.”

When Nicholas looked at him through his fingers, he thought he saw Murray’s left eye twitch. And no wonder. Whenever Miss Phillips became “insistent,” the best course of action was to either run for the hills, or acquiesce to whatever demand she was making.

Murray was clearly not being given that choice, and neither was Nicholas. He swore under his breath, then attempted to lever himself out of his cursed chair. “Fine,” he said once he was more or less on his feet. “Show them to the drawing room, and have tea sent up. And coffee. The coffee is for me. Then meet me in my bedchamber, I need to - I shall need assistance,” he sighed.

It was barely twenty minutes later that he was making final adjustments to his cuffs and carefully making his way through the drawing room doorway. His head was liable to split open at any moment, and every step he took felt like sheer agony. However, his duty now was to assure his friends that everything was entirely under control and there was little to worry over.

For Miss Phillips looked very worried, indeed. The tray of refreshments looked untouched.

“Nicholas!” she exclaimed, jumping up and rushing towards him, her gown an alarming shade of bright green. “What has happened to you?”

Her voice, ordinarily of a human pitch, now threatened to pierce his skull. “Shhh,” he uttered before he could check himself, then smiled apologetically. “Apologies. I find myself feeling slightly under the weather,” he went on, hoping to sway her into allowing him to at least sit down before he fell right over. “Please,” he urged, showing her back to where Chaloner was already seated on the settee. “Let us sit.”

Frowning, she nevertheless allowed herself to be steered back into place, and then Nicholas gratefully sank into a chair facing them both. “Good afternoon,” he said, rather unnecessarily. “What brings you here today? Tea, by the way?” He attempted nonchalance where there could be none, but the sooner they left, the sooner he could take to his bed.

“Worries, Nicholas,” Miss Phillips said, watching him with a furrowed brow, not even giving the tea tray a cursory glance. “We’ve seen neither hair nor hide of you since - when was it, Mr Chaloner, a week and a half now?”

“Mmm, I believe so,” Chaloner agreed mildly, turning an equally concerned gaze on Nicholas.

"Has anything grave happened?" Miss Phillips demanded. "Have you had a death in the family? What has occurred that you have not shown yourself for so long, we thought you liable to be dead?"

Nicholas blinked. Perhaps he had been somewhat remiss in letting his friends know of his whereabouts, but was this not an excessive amount of alarm? “No death, no," he said carefully. "I appreciate your concerns, but as you can see, I am whole, if slightly ill, I’m afraid." He gave them a smile he attempted to make as reassuring as possible. "Nothing to worry over. Really.”

Chaloner gave a snort befitting a man of much lower station than himself. “Ill, my arse - I beg your pardon, Miss Phillips. You reek of drink, man,” he exclaimed. "What is going on?"

“Do I?” Nicholas made an exaggerated show of sniffing his collar. He did, in fact, smell rather unfortunately, but he had hoped that the quick wash and shave he had managed earlier had taken care of the worst of it. “I sense nothing of the sort. And nothing – I am ill.”

“Nicholas, please,” Miss Phillips said.

Nicholas always liked that her unique nature somehow made it entirely permissible to call him by his Christian name, but today, it felt rather like a scolding. He was certainly not up for a scolding in his present state. “Yes, Miss Phillips?” he asked, sounding more irritated and tired than he had wished to.

Her upset gaze met his tired one. “Please,” she asked, softer. “You look positively at death’s door. What has happened? Why have you disappeared without a word? Can we help? You’ve been – you have been sorely missed by a great many people.”

Nicholas shut his eyes. He was human. He was allowed to pity himself and hide away from the world for a while. He felt raw, flayed to the bone, and he needed to be left in peace. Just for a while. Just for a little bit longer. Something in her tone, however, made him wish to be kind in return.

“I am simply feeling under the weather, I assure you,” he responded, smiling at her. “I shall be back soon.”

“And when is soon?” Chaloner asked, looking less concerned, but no less intent, than Miss Phillips.

Nicholas met his gaze. “Soon.” Despite himself, he added, “I shall be at Mrs Allen’s come Wednesday next. Does that satisfy?”

Miss Phillips looked to be doubting him very much, but then pursed her lips and gave a curt nod. “Very well. We shall hold you to that. If…” She paused, her hands clutched around her puce reticule. “If you would like company before that, you will let us know, will you not?” She sounded very much unlike herself. He felt a stab of guilt over neglecting his friends in favour of licking his wounds. “You really are...very much missed.” Her gaze gave him the notion she wished to pry further into his ill behaviour, but it was scarcely a subject he could entertain with her, or with Chaloner. With anyone, really. No one could know.

Nicholas bit his lip and nodded, breaking her gaze. “I promise,” he said, surprising himself by truly meaning it. “If I feel in need of company before next Wednesday, I shall call on you.”

“Good,” Miss Phillips said, looking a little more satisfied now. “Good. Please do.”

"Shall we have this tea, now?" Nicholas suggested, once more despite himself. "Due to my…illness, I have rather missed all the latest gossip. Would you care to catch me up?" he asked as he reached for his own coffee.

Miss Phillips's smile was more genuine now, and quite a bit more wicked. "We would love to!" She reached for a cup and filled with tea, bringing it close to her lips before saying, "Now, remember that silly uproar that took place on Curzon Street?"

"You mean with the Osbournes?" Nicholas said, eyebrows already rising.

"Oh, yes, the very same," Miss Phillips grinned fully now. "And but three days ago, it happened again."

Harry. Now.

They had aged, of course, but that was not what forced a flutter through Harry’s heart. For the first time in his life, in order to look his parents in the eye, he had to look down. It was a peculiar sort of stab through the gut, this realisation.

He was not the only one to note it.

“My darling,” Mama whispered, lifting one gloved hand to his face. “You are so grown.”

His tears threatened to choke him, and it was easier then, to take her hand and pull her in for an embrace, her face fitting in the crook of his shoulder. Beside him, he heard his father softly greeting Nicholas, presumably shaking his hand. Harry knew he should have been making certain that Nicholas was not about to faint of nerves, but the overwhelmingly familiar scent of rose water was currently making him heady, and he could not pull away. “Mama,” he said, quietly enough that only she would hear. “Mama.”

His father claimed his own embrace in due course, and that, too, was familiar. A touch gruff, a touch uncomfortable, and wholly wonderful.

In his exile, Harry was happy. But his family… His family, he had missed.

“Come in, come through, please,” he found himself saying, allowing Mama to take his arm, with Nicholas - pink-cheeked, but smiling, Harry noted - leading them alongside Harry’s father. Harry heard them exchange a few words over the upkeep of the remarkable landscaping that the Cox estate had been famous for even before Nicholas had come to restore it on Harry’s family’s behalf. He smiled to hear it. Nicholas surprised even himself, Harry believed, with how he threw himself into the work granted him. The gardens, he took especial care with. One corner was always reserved for an English rose walk, where they would sometimes go after their afternoon tea. Nicholas consulted Gardener about it on a nearly daily basis during rose season.

Whilst the footmen were busy restoring his parents’ things to what would be their rooms for the next three weeks, Harry arranged for tea to be served in the West drawing room in a couple of hours. It had the best views, especially in a little while, when the sun would still be high enough to illuminate the gardens, while not yet at a point of blinding them where they sat.

“If you would like to go upstairs, freshen up and rest after your journey, Stephan will show you the way to tea at three,” he addressed Mama. "You must be quite exhausted."

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” she replied, relief ghosting over her face. He could see each new line around her eyes, her mouth, between her brows. She was still the most beautiful woman in the world, but older, now, with many more cares. His father, too, was greyer around the temples, deep lines setting off his serious eyes, his jaw line beginning to disappear beneath newly formed jowls.

“We shall see you then,” Harry said, and with Nicholas silent by his side, watched as they followed Stephan up to their rooms.

It was not until they had gone that Nicholas touched his hand, forcing Harry’s gaze to meet his, and carefully asked, “How are you?”

Nicholas looked - well, beautiful. Always, so very beautiful. But worried, still. “I’m - well,” was all he managed. “I do not know, if I am honest. It is all a bit too much, is it not?”

Nicholas smiled. “It is, at that. They look well, though.”

“They do, don’t they?” Harry rushed to reassure himself as much as anything else. “Older, of course - “

“Unfortunately, parents do have the terrible tendency to age,” Nicholas said, kindly enough that Harry did not take offense at his teasing. “But yours,” he continued, bringing Harry’s hand up for a tender kiss, “are doing a remarkable job of keeping young.”

Harry leaned in until it was not his hand Nicholas was kissing, and only pulled away for decorum’s sake.

They could get away with a lot here in France, in what has become their shared home, but showing physical affection where the servants were liable to witness it was a line they never planned to cross. Only Murray ever saw them in a less-composed state, and they both trusted him implicitly.

“Come,” Nicholas said, all worry seemingly forgotten. “Let us rest before we sit to tea and enjoy a cucumber sandwich for the first time in - how long has it been?”

“A year? At least?”

“That means it has been too long. We really should tell Cook not to thumb her nose at English cuisine too much,” Nicholas mused.

“If we do, we shall end up eating frog’s legs and sea monsters for a month,” Harry responded, eyebrow raised. “I urge you to remember the Great Spotted Dick Incident of January ‘04.”

Nicholas snorted in the sort of display of undignified behaviour Harry loved most about him, and shook his head. “Admittedly, not the dick incident of January ‘04 I should like to remember,” he replied.

*

“Tell me, how is your practice going?” Harry’s father asked, after taking a final sip of his tea with some gusto.

“Very well, if I may be so bold,” Nicholas responded before Harry even had a chance. When Harry looked at him, Nicholas’s gaze was twinkling in his direction, forcing a flush from Harry’s cheeks. “He has become quite indispensable to the myriad business owners and the upper crust of Rouen.”

“Is that so?” Harry’s father raised eyebrows and smiled in Harry’s direction.

“Nicholas exaggerates, of course,” Harry rushed to explain. “But I have found some very loyal and, dare I say, satisfied clients.”

The first two or so years of his new life had posed an enormous challenge for Harry. Having to relearn law in a whole new country left him frustrated and on edge for weeks at a time, his French not being quite up to par when it came to that crucial minutiae of legal nonsense. Months of being buried under books and papers was certainly not what he had anticipated or looked forward to upon his arrival into Nicholas’s awaiting arms. But Nicholas was, of course, right. Recently, Harry had been finding his efforts were beginning to pay off.

“I assure you, Mr Styles,” Nicholas continued, smoothly as you please, “he is being entirely modest. Our friends have begun to send him a positive flurry of clients in need of legal expertise.”

Our friends. Harry flushed with pleasure. Indeed, they had become part of a no less lovely circle of people than the one Nicholas had left behind in London. Their closest friend was, in fact, an English expatriate, as well, called Miss Lowe. Fiercely independent, she had already proven herself to be a loyal and devoted friend to them both.

“That’s wonderful, darling,” his mother remarked. “You were always much too bright, really.”

“Nonsense.” Harry waved a dismissive hand, pleasure at the praise churning his stomach in a pleasant manner. “That has always been Gemma’s defining trait.”

“True enough.” Mama’s gaze was full of humour. He wrinkled his nose at her, feeling a child all over again, and laughed, before taking another sip of his wine.

*

Harry did not find himself alone again until he was walking the corridor between his study, where he had left Papa reading and enjoying another glass of sherry, and the portrait gallery, where Nicholas had accompanied Mama after dinner upon her request.

Harry was about to join them when something about their quiet voices arrested him on the spot. Biting his lip, he retreated just enough that no part of him would be visible to them, and hoped that no member of his staff would walk by and find him in the strange and compromising position of playing spy in his own house.

He strained to hear what, exactly, they - Mama, really - were saying. He felt some guilt, but not enough to stop. Somehow, whilst setting Papa up in his study, it never fully occurred to Harry that Mama and Nicholas would be alone in the meantime. Now he nearly stopped breathing, bearing witness to it.

“Ah. Now, this was my great-great-grandfather on my mother’s side. Henri,” Mama announced. Nicholas had, of course, seen the portrait many times, Harry knew. “Funny, is it not, how certain familial lines come out in different generations? My mother looked nothing like him.”

“Indeed.” Nicholas’s voice, quiet and warm. “You certainly - took after him.”

“Mmm, and Harry, after me,” she agreed, and something in Harry’s belly jolted at the sound of his own name. “Gemma, too, of course, but it is easier to see Harry’s features on a man’s face.”

There was a long pause.

“He seems – happy here. He looks happy,” she finally said, softer, and Harry shifted the tiniest bit to be able to glance at them before cowering back behind the wall. They did not notice him, for their backs were to the doorway. They were both watching the portrait, heads only slightly inclined towards each other. Harry strained to hear what, if anything, would be Nicholas’s response.

“I -” Nicholas broke off. Harry felt his fingernails leaving tiny crescents of pain on his palms. He attempted to ease some of the tension from his body, but it proved difficult. “Forgive me, I find myself in a strange position indeed, speaking to you of your son as if I…knew him better.” The last part sounded more like a question than anything else. Harry frowned.

“Please, do be frank with me, Mr Grimshaw,” his mother urged, sounding both anxious and welcoming at once. “I so long to hear of how he is doing, from someone who sees him every day.”

After the smallest of pauses, Nicholas said softly, “All right. Well.” He cleared his throat. Harry stopped breathing entirely where he stood. “In that case, he is – he is happy, I believe. He is thriving. His French could give me a run for my money, and he is - extremely competent at what he does. It helps, of course,” and here, Nicholas sounded rueful, “that he could charm the dead if he had a wish to. Practically everybody he meets falls instantly in love with him.”

“Yes,” Mama replied, and Harry could hear the smile in her face. His throat felt parched, suddenly. “He has been this way always, since his birth, if you can believe it.”

“I can,” Nicholas said, smile clear in his voice.

They were quiet for so long that Harry nearly decided to make himself known, but then Mama spoke again. Her soft voice invited intimacy. “You love him enough for all of us.” Harry’s heart hammered within his chest. He cursed it, for it made hearing her quiet voice that much more difficult. Nicholas was not responding, and Mama continued. “You know, in the – in the beginning, I believe we both harboured a secret hope he would grow out of it.” A pause. “Away from you.”

Harry’s heart nearly stopped within his chest. He held his breath, hands seeking purchase on the wall behind him. No, no, please, no…

“Please, allow me to finish,” she hurried, and Harry was desperate to know what he was not seeing. “That was years ago now, and you will understand, I am certain, more than most, the difficulty in loving someone who was making such a difficult choice. You understand, do you not?” Her tone was urgent now.

“I do,” Nicholas said, so softly, Harry nearly missed it.

“We believed – mistakenly, of course – that this was a schoolboy phase, you know, as it happens with quite a few boys. Oh, hush,” she laughed after a moment. “I am not so sheltered as to not know what goes on in schools between boys when no ladies are available.” Her voice was amused now, and Harry silently cursed himself again as his head thudded against the wall. He certainly never wanted to know the extent to which his mother knew any such thing. It felt - unseemly. Wrong. Even as he welcomed her into the home he shared with his male lover, it felt quite horrific to consider the implications behind her words. Good God.

“Regardless, as much as these things happen, most boys grow into men who… move on. Men who marry, sire children. Which, of course, is always the hope for your own children. That they grow up and go on to have children of their own.” Wistful, now. “But not Harry.” Her sigh was deep, affectionate. And not a little sad. “He chose a difficult path in life.”

Nicholas was still quiet, and Harry needed to know what he was thinking. He loved his mother, but he felt as if she was tearing Nicholas’s heart into pieces with her words. This, he realised belatedly. This was what Nicholas had been so afraid of.

More the fool, Harry, for not having anticipated it.

Nicholas, facing his parents, alone. Shouldering the burden that should have been shared equally among them both. What a fool, Harry was. What a thoughtless, childish fool.

When he dared a peek around the doorway, he saw that his mother’s head was inclined in Nicholas’s direction, her hand on his arm. Harry frowned. Nicholas, for his part, appeared to be frozen still as he looked down at nothing on the ground.

“What I am trying to say in a rather… roundabout and terrible way, Mr Grimshaw,” his mother went on, softer than before, “is that, if he had to choose this path, I am – I am happy that it was with you.”

Harry’s heart thundered in his chest. He watched, entranced, as Nicholas’s head shot up and he met Mama’s gaze.

“I -”

“He loves you very much, that is obvious,” Mama said, a small smile appearing on her lips. “But what gladdens me even more is that you so clearly love him back.”

Harry swallowed. He should not have been here, he knew that. He was witnessing something he had no right to witness, but for the life of him, he could not move away. He was rooted to his shameful spot, and there he remained as Nicholas finally spoke, his voice sounding hoarse, as it sometimes did first thing in the morning. “I do, Mrs Styles. I love him very dearly indeed.”

“That’s good,” she said, nodding, her arm dropping back to her side. “Forgive me my frankness. I simply… Well.” She ran a light hand over her forehead, down her cheek. It was a gesture so familiar, Harry's knees nearly buckled beneath him. “I am a mother. A mother, you understand, worries.”

“Of course,” Nicholas replied. His profile was now turned enough that Harry could see his face, though it did not betray much emotion. “Harry is very lucky to have parents like yourself and Mr Styles,” he continued carefully before taking Mama’s hand and lifting it to his lips. “You are - quite remarkable.”

Harry could watch no longer. Taking great care to be as quiet as possible, he peeled himself away from the wall, then strode off, finding the East drawing room empty upon inspection. He shut the door behind him before slowly sinking against it, his face buried in his hands.

He sat in the darkened room and attempted to return to breathing normally. Eventually. Eventually, his breath would surely return.

Nicholas. Then.

Nicholas was with Mr Barnett on a mission he would as soon not have been part of, but was obliged to partake in. It was a matter of a ring. Mr Barnett’s betrothal to Miss Geldof was already known in the ton, their wedding nearly upon them, but he insisted on procuring her an engagement ring regardless.

That was where Nicholas came in, of course. Why “of course,” he could not say, merely that Mr Barnett had called upon him and insisted that he, Nicholas, was, “of course,” the only person with a discerning enough eye for such an important matter. Nicholas rather suspected an ulterior motive of getting him to leave his house, but was too fond of his friend not to oblige him, in the end.

And so they found themselves along the Strand, milling amongst the lively crowds, searching through the shops for Barnett’s perfect ring.

“What about this one?” Nicholas asked half-heartedly, pointing to where a lovely ruby ring glinted on black velvet. “It is tasteful, yes clearly very well made.”

Barnett twisted around to look, lowering himself until he was practically nose to ring, much to the displeasure of the store proprietor, Nicholas noted with some amusement.

“Come, Barnett, it isn’t all that small,” he sighed.

“No, no, it is, in fact, quite minuscule,” Barnett chastised him, rising now that his point was made. “It won't do. Oh, what about this one?”

Nicholas pretended to recoil in horror. “That seems overly ostentatious, even for –” He was about to say Miss Geldof, but decided his words could be easily misconstrued. “You.”

Barnett merely squinted at him momentarily and moved on.

Nicholas decided his services were, likelier than not, superfluous. He began to look around the purveyor’s just to amuse himself. He so longed to be back home, well in his cups. It was still the only amusement capable of truly distracting him from his broken heart.

He did not attend any more parties than was absolutely necessary, and only saw Barnett and the lot at his club, where he was certain he would not run across – well. Anyone he was not prepared to face. He took strolls in the park with his female friends lest he continue to worry them needlessly, but more often than not, it was him, and his whisky, and the setting sun.

“Ready to exit this place?” he asked Barnett, close at his elbow, when he turned and came face to face with Mr Styles, instead.

Nicholas could feel all the blood draining from his face.

“Forgive me, I – I had been looking for my friend,” he stammered out, noting as he did so that Mr Styles looked equally as horrified to have bumped into him. “I – good day, sir,” Nicholas managed to utter through his agitated state, nodded, and allowed his legs to take him from the shop, Barnett and his rings be damned.

He was catching his breath outside when a gentle female voice called out his name. “Mr Grimshaw?”

He knew that voice before he saw its owner, casting a desperate look as Miss Styles approached him, stopping a mere two feet from him. God, was Harry here, as well? Was Nicholas to face the entire family now, all horrified politeness and painful manners?

This was why he never wanted to leave the house anymore. He was besieged.

A traitorous part of him longed to catch even a glimpse of Harry’s face, anyway. It had been two weeks. Two of the longest weeks of his life.

Another part of him was entirely uncertain he could bear it.

“Miss Styles,” he made himself croak, and kissed her hand in greeting as if by someone else’s doing. “How - how are you?”

She looked remarkably well, he thought. Bright, pretty as ever. Glowing. Especially, really, compared to him. He did not need a mirror to tell him he was pale and drawn, with dark circles having taken up permanent residence under his eyes. If you had told Nicholas Grimshaw even half a year ago that he would allow himself to be seen in such a state in public, he would have laughed in your face.

“I am - I am very well, thank you,” she responded. Her eyes looked - Nicholas could not honestly tell. Was it concern or pity? Surely, if it was disgust, she should never have called out his name or approached him. Still, it would have been preferable. “And you?”

He nearly laughed. “I am well,” he answered instead, terse despite himself. Politeness, damn her sniveling self, required of him to ask, “And your family? Also well?”

“Oh, well - yes, I suppose so.” She paused, eyebrows drawing in, then added in a contemplative tone, “As well as could be expected.”

Nicholas nearly stumbled. He could not believe that she would allow herself to mention what had passed, even obliquely. Or to insinuate that it was not all buried in the past. That is what Nicholas had been telling himself every day, at the very least. ‘Twas all in the past.

“Well, do send –” he managed before stopping himself. No. Not even for politeness’ sake. “Miss Styles, I implore you," he said instead, "if I can impose such a thing upon you, not to mention this meeting to...anybody else.” Do not tell Harry. Please, do not mention my name, he begged silently.

She looked taken aback, but when she responded, it was cordial, with no trace of pity this time. “Of course, Mr Grimshaw. As you wish.”

“Grimshaw? Where the devil have you - oh, please pardon me, Miss Styles.” Barnett had, of course, barreled out of the shop just in time. Nicholas felt relief mingling with something else. Regret, perhaps.

Unconsciously, he scanned the crowd around them for a head of unruly brown curls. Having found no trace of such, he tightened his lips, then said, “It was…that is... Goodbye, Miss Styles.” Nicholas bowed his head, then indicated for Barnett to follow him before allowing his legs to lead him as far as possible, as quickly as possible.

“My apologies, again, Miss Styles,” Barnett called after them. It was not until they were half a block away that he turned to Nicholas, who was, by now, expecting a rebuke for his unacceptable rudeness towards a young lady. “Are you all right?” he asked instead.

Nicholas felt his hands twitching, his heart jumping in his chest. “Of course. Why should I not be?”

When he looked sideways at Barnett, Barnett merely shrugged and levelly returned his gaze. “You appeared quite agitated just now, that is all.”

“I am tired,” Nicholas lied. “But don’t let that stop us. I take it no luck with the ring yet?”

“Sadly, no,” Barnett sighed, change of subject readily accepted. “But there’s always the next shop.”

“Of course there is,” Nicholas sighed in return, and allowed his friend to lead him.

Harry. Now.

Harry’s pulse quickened as his parents bid him and Nicholas a good night. At the moment the door shut and they found themselves alone, Harry turned towards Nicholas, then set down his glass onto the nearest tray. Nicholas was watching him carefully, with a warmth that betrayed none of the emotion of the day. “Come here,” he said softly, and Harry went immediately.

Nicholas’s chair was built for one, but it was built well. Harry made himself comfortable across Nicholas's lap, even with his bottom digging into the armrest lightly and his feet hanging off the other side. He was instantly cocooned within Nicholas’s hold around his waist, and then their fingers intertwined over their legs.

For a long moment, they both simply stared down at their two hands, quiet in thought. It felt like the first true silence in nearly a month. Now that the event was here, and the first thrill over and done with, Harry felt truly exhausted, and shocked by it.

“What are you thinking of?” Nicholas asked, breaking the silence.

Harry lifted his gaze to meet Nicholas’s, and before he could think better of it, he said, “I overheard you and Mama in the main gallery tonight. I am sorry.” He felt himself flushing with shame. He had never intended to reveal what he heard. It was simply that – he had been utterly unable to stop thinking about it.

“Ah.” Nicholas, normally transparent in his moods, if not entirely willing to be so, gave away no emotion. “Which, hmm. Which part?” He was looking down at their hands once more.

Harry thought it a good sign that he had not pulled away. “I am not sure,” he said, frowning. How much had he not heard? Nicholas had one knuckle that rose higher than the rest, on his middle finger. It looked like a callus, and Harry loved it. He loved the shadow it left, like a mountain peak over a series of hills, and loved that he could make it out by feel even when on his knees, Nicholas’s fingers up to the hilt inside of him. Now he was thumbing it, as if attempting to draw courage from the anomalous bone structure. “I heard…” He cleared his throat. “I heard her say that she used to wish I would pass this phase. That she had hoped I’d marry, and have children.”

“Oh, Harry,” Nicholas breathed after a moment and when Harry looked into his face, he saw only love. He did not know why he had expected a rebuke. After all, it was not Harry she had been targeting with her words. Nicholas leaned in and kissed him. Nothing more than a light kiss, but it comforted Harry, gave him courage.

“You did not mind?” he asked, searching his face for answers.

“Mind that she had hoped for our end?” Nicholas’s tone was light, but he grew thoughtful, too. “Of course I did.” A pause, in which Harry barely breathed. “But… But that is in the past now.” He sounded gentle, as if he was nudging Harry towards his words.

“Is it, though?” Harry asked, despite himself. “Will she ever truly be happy for me?”

Nicholas’s eyebrows drew together. “I believe she is as happy for you as is possible, given the situation.”

But now that Harry heard the words, he felt something akin to anger, anger at the fact that, despite all outward appearances, and despite the fact that he and Nicholas had such a love between them, their situation called for a “given.” “Our situation,” he said, feeling stubborn, and contrary, “is perfect.”

Nicholas’s face showed beginnings of amusement. “Is it?”

“Yes,” Harry replied fiercely, attempting to ignore his lover nearly laughing at him. “Is it not? We love each other.”

“We do,” Nicholas readily agreed.

“We have incredible sex together, if I do say so myself,” he went on.

Nicholas’s amusement gave way to something deeper as he slowly replied, “We do.”

“My law practice is becoming a success, and you have found us a terrific group of people with whom to spend time."

“All true.” Harry could tell Nicholas was biting his cheek from the inside.

“Then why?” He was distantly aware of sounding childish, mulish, even, but could not stop himself. “Why should our happiness have qualifiers?”

Nicholas sighed, sagging into the chair as he did so. “I do not know, my love.”

Harry worried his lower lip with his teeth. “It is unfair.”

Unfair and insulting. But he was no longer a child, and thus, when the haze of vexation cleared, he was left with a familiar sadness, the sort he knew he would never be able to fully shake.

“You know,” Nicholas said after a while. “She also said that she was happy that it was –”

“You,” Harry interrupted. “She was happy I had chosen you.”

They watched each other now, gazes intent, as if searching for more. Whenever Nicholas looked at him like that, Harry’s skin felt as if it were on fire. Still. After all this time.

“Yes.” Nicholas voice was barely a whisper, but it was loud enough for Harry.

“I am so sorry,” Harry croaked out. “I am so sorry you ever had to suffer because of me.” He hadn’t intended to do this. Not at this moment, not when they were both just a little bit fragile from the day's events, from the past month of preparations. But it tumbled out of him now as if someone had slipped the cork from an overturned wine barrel. A torrent of words. “I am sorry it had to have been this way, and I am sorry that I was not able to come to your aid. Not then, and not even now. All these weeks when you had fretted and worried and I dismissed your concerns as if they were nothing…” He took a breath. “You knew what you might have had to endure, and did endure. Tonight, at my mother’s side. You did all that and you never complained, regardless of how much pain you might have been feeling. Still might be. Are you?” he broke off, releasing his hand from Nicholas’s light hold only to place it upon his heart over his waistcoat. “Are you in pain?”

Nicholas huffed out what could have been a laugh or a sob or both at once. But when he smiled at Harry, Harry felt his own worries beginning to clear. “Harry. My darling,” Nicholas said, reaching out to brush a lock of hair behind Harry's ear. “It was never me that I was worried about.”

“What?” Harry asked, feeling slow and dull. “But then –”

“It was you,” Nicholas replied.

“Me? Why?” Him?

Nicholas lifted his eyebrows, truly laughing this time. “Why? They are your parents! What if they had something dreadful they had to tell you? What if they found something wanting, with you? With our – our situation?”

“But you’re in this situation, too,” Harry pointed out, frowning as he looked at him. “So –”

“Well, all right. Maybe I was worried on my behalf, as well. A little.” Nicholas's smile was rueful, this time. Mocking. “God knows I’d not part with you for anything, or anyone.” He paused as Harry began to feel a smile lifting his own cheeks. “You are quite stuck with me.”

“But what she said, about you -”

“Was nothing that a loving mother would not say to her son’s male lover,” Nicholas pointed out, eyebrow raised. “But I do believe her to be quite singular in her current response to our…arrangement.”

Harry blinked. He was but three and twenty, and still he could not always see past himself, no better than when he’d been seventeen. It was high time he learned. “She is quite...remarkable, is she not?” he mused aloud.

“Indeed. As is your father, to be sure,” Nicholas said matter-of-factly.

Harry hummed his agreement. Then another thought struck him. “Still, it could not have been just me and what they might say that had you so worried, could it? You were - pardon my frankness, but darling, you were quite an agitated, emotional mess these past few weeks.”

“I was no such thing,” Nicholas protested, but subsided under Harry’s cynical gaze. “Well, if you must know…" He sighed. "I was concerned about the gardens.”

“The – gardens?” Harry’s disbelief clearly made itself known.

“Yes, the gardens,” Nicholas replied, peevishly. “Don’t you dare laugh. I was sent here under the auspices of helping you tend to the estate. I was not about to let their trust in me down, was I?”

Harry, utterly failing at not laughing at him now, shook his head and said, “Of course not. That would have been unthinkable.”

“Brat,” Nicholas bit out and then his clever fingers found Harry’s waist, tickling even through the layers of shirt and waistcoat.

“Oh, oh, no, you’ll overturn us – no, no – stop –” Harry gasped and laughed all at once, attempting to get away from the tickling fingers at the same time as trying to stay upright. “The chair – your chair –”

“To hell with the chair,” Nicholas laughed, bright with it, then mercifully stopped tickling Harry when the chair wobbled beneath them. “Oh dear.” They both froze on the spot, watching each other in alarm, but the chair mercifully froze with them.

“I told you –” Harry said, or rather, tried to, but Nicholas did not allow him to finish. Their kiss was sudden, and hungry. Nicholas curled one hand around Harry’s jaw, his long fingers tangling with Harry's hair. Harry, in turn, clung to him like a man dying, bunching Nicholas’s best waistcoat without a single thought. When they broke off with a gasp, Harry rested his forehead against Nicholas’s and whispered, “Let’s go to bed. Can we? Please.”

Nicholas tightened his hold on Harry for a moment, and then it went slack. “Harry –”

“No, please, we – we have discussed this.” And they had. Discussed it to the point of making something akin to military battle plans, if he was honest. He could not bear the thought of –

“But your parents, Harry,” Nicholas said, biting his lip and looking uncertain. “I am not assured of the propriety –”

“Fuck propriety,” Harry bit out.

“I tend to agree, under normal circumstances,” Nicholas went on, “but I am not sure that I could –”

“ – Rise to the occasion?” Harry raised an eyebrow, but his twitching lips were surely betraying him.

For a moment, Nicholas simply watched him with both horror and amusement writ across his face. When finally he spoke, he said firmly, “Right. Down you get.”

“What –” Before he knew what was happening, Harry was being swiftly manhandled until he was no longer sitting across Nicholas’s lap but was sprawled on the floor, his knees echoing the somewhat painful landing, hands just breaking the fall. “You –”

“No,” Nicholas said, his breath sudden and hot near Harry’s ear. “You.”

Harry’s breath caught on a whine. He licked his lips, even as he felt Nicholas’s hands pulling on his boots. “You refuse to share my bed when my parents are visiting, but you’ll fuck me on the drawing room floor?” Harry asked, half appalled, half so aroused, he could scarcely hear his own voice.

Nicholas stilled behind him, then dropped the boot he had succeeded at freeing onto the floor. He shuffled forward until he could lever Harry up onto his knees, as well, and lifted Harry's chin with a single finger. In the candlelight, Harry watched as Nicholas’s eyes turned dark. He licked his lips and waited.

“Would you rather be fucked on the bed?” Nicholas asked.

Harry swallowed and slowly shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. As long as I get fucked.”

Nicholas’s cheeks turned pink as he watched Harry back. “You’ll have to be quiet,” he told him softly.

“Aren’t I always?” Harry smirked.

Nicholas’s laugh sounded like it was directed at himself. He dropped his head and his hand, then ran his fingers through his hair. “God. You are so very, very – you.”

Harry’s vague notion of interjecting with such pithy descriptives as clever?, beautiful?, delightful? died on his lips. “Please,” he said, instead, looking Nicholas in the eye. “Take me to bed.”

Nicholas did. Before tonight, they had talked of pretenses – Harry entering his “bedchamber,” Nicholas entering his – only in title – own. Then Harry would cross through the study, which adjoined both rooms, and stay with Nicholas, as he always did. Nicholas’s bedchamber was cosier and they both preferred for it to be their shared one. They no longer truly bothered with this charade when it came to the staff, but then, the staff rarely witnessed them going to bed, together or not.

But Nicholas did not even trouble with the pretense tonight. He simply led Harry through to their shared bedchamber and locked the door behind them.

The fire had already been stoked by Murray, warming the room and casting a glow about it. They were silent as they began to undress each other, efficient in their studied movements. The thing that presented the biggest challenge tonight was the way in which Harry had chosen to tie his neckcloth, but even that eventually submitted to Nicholas’s clever fingers. “Mathematical knot,” he tutted, his small smile private. “You certainly like a challenge.”

“I am not the dandy among us two,” Harry reminded him, easing away Nicholas’s emerald waistcoat, and going for the buttons of his shirt.

“Mmm, but you’ve certainly become more adept at it,” Nicholas replied, then stepped away to slip off his shirt.

“Thank you,” Harry accepted solemnly, and went for his breeches.

Nicholas fucked him slowly that night. Opened him up with carefully methodical movements, laying behind him, kissing Harry’s neck, his shoulders, the two peaks of his shoulder blades. “Where your wings would be,” he’d said once. The thought still made Harry smile.

Tonight, Harry did as promised – he was quiet. Clutching the bedding between his fists, he gasped out unspoken curses, unfathomable wordless promises. He bore down, took Nicholas’s fingers until he could wait no more, and began to plead softly, whispering into the sheets. His hair was plastered to his neck with sweat. “Please, do it now – need you – please –”

Nicholas kissed his shoulder in answer, slipped out his fingers. Harry waited, the interminable moments before Nicholas was nudging between his legs slow like torture. When he finally did, Harry did not think he could speak if he tried. The burn of it, so familiar, so vital – and then the first spark of pleasure. God, he lived for that spark. Again and again, Nicholas nudged it as he fucked him, clinging to Harry, breathing words into his ear. Also familiar. Also vital. Again and again, he rocked them both, until Harry only existed to feel the mind-numbing, heart-racing pleasure of it, biting down on the pillow just to stop himself crying out.

“So good, my sweetheart,” Nicholas whispered – whimpered, really. He was not yet beyond words like Harry, but Harry knew it would be soon. Even now, feeling Nicholas’s damp skin against his own was like a dream. As if he could ever have thought – could have hoped – could have even imagined –

“God,” Nicholas bit out and his movements became harder, grew faster, more urgent. Harry encouraged him with a hand to his hip, guiding him now, to fuck him deeper, harder, yes, there, God. He could finish just like this, but it was even better when he was being touched. He reached for his own cock, and Nicholas followed, and that was how Harry spent. Their hands wrapped around his cock, Nicholas surrounding him, urging him to the highest pleasure, his body anchoring Harry to the bed. Harry trembled with the relief-pleasure-pain of it all, shaking like a leaf as he did his utmost not to cry out and wake the household.

“Harry,” Nicholas whispered, and he sounded urgent now, desperate as he fucked him. “God, Harry –”

Harry brought their linked hands to his mouth and kissed Nicholas’s knuckles, licking his own comings from the skin. “Love you,” he whispered, out of his mind from being fucked. He nipped at Nicholas’s fingers, then licked them clean, then sucked them into his mouth, his eyes slipping shut. God, he loved even this, the taste of himself and Nicholas mingled, and then – Nicholas’s sharp cry as he finally spent. The cry and the sinking of his teeth into Harry’s shoulder as he shuddered with it, quaking the bed.

It was not until after they managed to pull apart that Harry fully relaxed into the sheets. He waited until Nicholas slipped out of bed to turn over.

He loved this part, too. In the soft crackling of the fire, Nicholas looked utterly debauched as he wet a cloth from the ewer and cleaned himself off. Harry propped himself up on one elbow and awaited his turn, smiling. His focus was pulled by the patch of hair around Nicholas’s navel. He loved that patch of hair. It looked to be the shape of a heart. “You look like you’ve been having lewd relations,” he noted.

Without looking up, Nicholas quirked an eyebrow. “How scandalous. I was under the impression I have just come back from a brisk walk.”

“Mmm. Well, exercise is quite important,” Harry responded, stretching luxuriously on the – granted, somewhat soiled – bed. “I hear it is very good for your health.”

“Then we must be healthy as oxen,” Nicholas said, then met Harry’s gaze. They shared a smile. “Are you all right?”

Harry searched himself for an answer, for he knew Nicholas’s questions was not meant in jest. He sagged fully back into the bed and gave his honest reply. “More than all right. I’m very happy.”

Nicholas wrung out the cloth and wet it once more, moving towards Harry. “Good,” he smiled, then sat on the edge and quietly cleaned Harry up, as well. His belly first, then nudging Harry’s legs apart and drawing the cloth in between. Harry luxuriated in the feeling of being cared for. Nicholas did this every time he topped, and Harry allowed it because it felt - important. Somehow, it was important to the both of them. When it was his turn, he did not begrudge it.

“Thank you for today,” Harry ventured once they were both ensconced beneath the covers, his fingers running across Nicholas’s chest, then down his belly, still cool from the cloth. “I do not think I could have done it without you.”

“Nonsense,” Nicholas replied, his hands also drawing lazy circles across Harry’s skin. “You were a wonderful host.”

“And you,” Harry insisted, giving one of Nicholas’s nipples a light pinch. He received a slap on the back for that. If Nicholas’s hands had been longer, Harry was certain it would have been his buttocks. He grinned. “We both were.”

“All right,” Nicholas agreed. He was mere moments from dropping off, Harry realised.

“Nicholas,” he rushed before the inevitable happened.

“Mmm?”

“I love you.” His hand stopped in the middle of Nicholas's chest, all of him alert. He listened to the dull thudding of Nicholas’s heart against his ear. “I just - I want you to know this. All the time.”

“I do,” Nicholas replied. After a silence long enough that Harry wondered if Nicholas had had the nerve to fall asleep at such a moment, Harry raised his head. He met Nicholas’s amused gaze and pursed his lips.

“And?” he urged after a moment.

“Oh, all right,” Nicholas sighed, raising his eyes heavenward. “I suppose I love you, too.”

“Bastard,” Harry grinned. Then he pinched another nipple.

Nicholas grabbed hold of his wrist and stilled him. His smile dropped off. “You know I do, Harry. You were always my one. You are always my one.”

Harry felt both their hearts beating in erratic rhythms now. He leaned in until their lips could meet and said, “I know. I’ve always known.”

Nicholas kissed him. Sleep claimed them just like that, and they did not wake until the morning.

***