"Zayn," Harry groans, throwing himself face-down onto the bed in his chambers. Zayn is stretched out on the other end, Harry's torn shirt from the fall last week puddled in his lap and a needle and thread in hand. "Zaaaaaaayn," Harry repeats, drawing it out this time.
Zayn doesn't respond, just concentrates on threading the needle and waits for Harry to continue, as he always does. Harry doesn't feel like opening up immediately this time, though, so he props his chin up on his arm and turns his right hand over, closes it into a fist and focuses his energy. Within moments, his palm heats up and begins to tingle, warmth radiating up his arm and blooming in his chest. When he opens his hand, there is a flower sitting in the center of his palm, small and perfect and strikingly pink. He focuses more energy on it, watches it grow and bloom before his very eyes while Zayn just sews his shirt together quietly.
"You know," Zayn comments mildly, finally deigning to speak, "most people in the throes of angst would destroy, not create."
Staring down at the peony, now the size of his palm, Harry shrugs and says, "What satisfaction is there in destroying something when you could be giving something life?"
There's a long stretch of silence, and Harry wrenches his attention off the flower and looks up at Zayn. Zayn is staring at him, eyebrows raised in wonder.
"What," Harry mutters defensively. His vision from the previous week pops suddenly back into his head, and he's not entirely sure he's speaking of flowers anymore when he says, "I like giving things life. I want to create a lot of life."
"Harry," Zayn sighs, his voice immeasurably fond. "We're not talking about babies again, are we?"
Biting his lip, Harry drops his gaze back to the flower, strokes a finger across the top, and watches the curling petals ripple. "Maybe," he mumbles, cheeks heating up a bit under Zayn's stare.
He hears a rustle of fabric, feels the bed shift, and then Zayn is draping himself along Harry's side and cuddling in close, whispering, "You're not expecting, are you? I'll kill Louis, I don't care if he's royalty."
Harry bursts into surprised laughter, rolls onto his side so that he can look Zayn in the eye, and say, "Zayn Malik, please tell me you are not being serious right now." At Zayn's blank look, Harry says, "We have been here less than two weeks, how could I possibly be pregnant already."
Zayn raises an eyebrow and Harry rolls his eyes, says, "Alright, fine, how could I possibly know if I was pregnant already? Not that I am," he hastens to add. "That's actually quite impossible."
Any amusement Zayn's question had brought him fades when he remembers why being pregnant at the moment is impossible, and he rolls back onto his belly and resumes fussing with the peony. Its sweet scent is a comfort, as is the weight and warmth of Zayn at his side, but Harry still wants.
"You know," Zayn sighs, breath ruffling Harry's hair where his chin is resting on his shoulder. "I don't know why Louis is still betrothed to Gemma."
Harry frowns. "Why?"
He can feel Zayn's shrug against his side, feel the vibrations when Zayn says, "He doesn't want to marry her. They will never make a good match when his interest clearly lies with you."
Harry scoffs and pushes the flower aside so that he can roll onto his back, arms and legs spread, and stare moodily up at the ceiling. He likes the ceilings here, lined with heavy wooden beams that criss-cross in fascinating patterns. He's fairly certain that there's a cat living on one of the beams in his room. He wishes it would come down and let him pet it, he could use another friend in this castle.
"Louis only enjoys my company," Harry laments, lacing his fingers across his stomach. "In a few weeks, he's going to announce his engagement to Gemma and I'll see them married, then we'll travel back home and hardly see them again. She'll be happy here."
"You're wrong," Zayn states before picking back up the shirt and his needle. He takes a moment to start sewing, then continues, "Louis and Gemma are a poor match. Gemma loves England and Louis loves you."
Harry ignores the way his stomach twists at Zayn's words, refuses to entertain hope where he knows there is none. Instead of responding, he lets his eyes slide shut, listens to the soft rustle of fabric while Zayn works, and the calm, even rhythm of his breathing, lets the sounds lull him to sleep.
~
The forest is dark and inviting as they approach on horseback. It's just past noon and Gemma has run off for a baking lesson with Louis' sisters, has left the two of them to ride alone. Harry's thighs burn pleasantly as he grips Epona's sides, and he thinks about the fact that he's had to call for a tailor to loosen his trousers with not a small amount of pride. His legs have always been quite skinny, but he's built some muscle while riding and his breeches are a bit too snug for it.
He's contemplating the merits of leather trousers when Louis asks, "I thought we might ride a bit further today. It's so bloody hot, a swim in the river might be nice?"
Harry nods in agreement and loosens his grip on the reins, letting Epona follow Apollo and Louis as they wind through the trees along a different path than they usually take. Distracted and restless from the growing tension between himself and Louis over the past few days, Harry allows himself the stolen luxury of plucking a strange purple flower off of a vine creeping up the trunk of a tree as they pass, cups it gently in his palm so that he can learn it. By the time Louis slows them to a stop, he has a perfect duplicate of the flower in his other hand.
He smiles down at them, well pleased with himself. He doesn't realize that they've stopped and Louis has dismounted until a shadow falls across his hand and a voice says, "Toadflax? Did you find that here?"
Harry nods, peering down at Louis. He tucks the flowers into Epona's bridle, then twists in the saddle to dismount. "It was clinging to a tree."
"Weird, they prefer stone. It grows along the palace in the spring, maybe it wanted shade from the summer heat."
Harry can feel Louis' eyes on him as he hops to the ground and straightens up, and he smooths out his trousers nervously before turning to face him. Louis is still watching him, eyes dark and unreadable.
"Are you hungry? Do you want something to drink? I have water and a bit of wine Stan put in my pouch."
The thought of drinking wine while out in the middle of the woods with just Louis and the heavy tension spinning out between them makes Harry feel a bit nervous, and he shakes his head, mumbles a thank you before turning to loop Epona's reins to a nearby branch.
He spends an inordinate amount of time making sure that it's secure and petting her muzzle, only turns around when he hears a whoop and a splash, followed by, "Come on, Hazza, the water is warm!"
Louis is already waist-deep in the river, expression radiant and chest distressingly bare. Harry catches sight of a pile of clothing strewn across a nearby rock, is able to make out a pair of trousers in the mix. A sense of trepidation winds its way up his spine as he approaches the rock to undress. It's not that he has an aversion to nudity. On the contrary, he prefers to wear as few items of clothing as possible when he can. It's Louis' nakedness and his own sense of self-control that worry him.
Harry takes his time stripping off while Louis waits. He folds his tunic into a neat square and removes the scarf from his hair, sets his boots on the rock so that no critters will make their home inside of them, then unlaces his breeches slowly and meticulously. He can hear Louis shifting about restlessly in the water, poorly-disguised sighs as he waits for Harry to join him. By the time Harry is fully nude, there are goosebumps raised all along his torso and his throat feels thick as he swallows. He doesn't ask Louis to turn away, though, just makes for the edge of the water and tries not to think about the weight of Louis' eyes on him, or the fact that Louis has never seen him without a shirt, much less completely disrobed.
He doesn't look up from the reflective surface of the water until he's waist-deep, finds himself only an arm's length from where Louis is stood watching him with hooded eyes. Louis' voice is gruff when he says, "It's about time, Curly. My nan moves faster than you do."
Harry tilts his head to the side, a playful smile flirting with the corners of his mouth. He relaxes a bit, pleased that Louis at least feels comfortable enough to tease him again. "Do you watch your nan undress often?"
"Oh, piss off," Louis laughs, slapping at the surface of the river with the side of his hand, so that water arcs up toward Harry and hits him full in the face.
Harry splutters and shoves his sopping wet curls out of his eyes, then narrows them in challenge. He advances on Louis slowly, trying to look menacing and desperately holding back a giggle. "You may be the crowned prince, Louis, but I can still best you."
"I'd like to see you try," Louis throws back before sending another wave of water toward Harry. He takes the opportunity to flee while Harry wipes water from his eyes, and once Harry has managed to slick his hair off his face, Louis is already several meters down river, body cutting a neat path through the water as he swims.
As it turns out, being from northern England, where the water is always frigid and rough, is a slight disadvantage. He's determined, though, and Harry only gives the chase up once his arms refuse to work and he can barely see the horses where they've left them tied up. He calls out a weak surrender and rolls onto his back in the water, lets his eyes fall shut while he floats along gently and listens for the sound of Louis' return. The trees are more sparse down here, and he can feel the sun on his face, warming him and giving his winter-pale skin some color.
He's considering getting out of the water and just walking back to the horses when he feels the water ripple around him and something blocks out the light above his face. Harry squints one eye open to find Louis looking down at him, eyes dark and chest flushed from the effort of swimming. His hair is pushed back and there are beads of water sliding down the sides of his neck, shadows pooling in the hollows beneath his cheekbones. He's beautiful. Harry has never wanted anyone more in his life.
They stare at each other for a long moment, the world around them gone fuzzy and muted, reduced to just the two of them floating quietly in the middle of the river. Without a word, Louis lays a tentative hand on Harry's stomach, tanned fingers stark against his skin. Warmth spools out from that point of contact, Louis' touch heavy, like a promise. Harry swallows nervously, the sound echoing in his ears, and fights to steady his breathing, to stay afloat under the weight of Louis' gaze. The silence stretches out between them as Harry stares steadily back up at Louis, neither of them daring to make a move.
Harry's blood is thundering in his veins, nerves and anticipation fluttering madly in his belly as he waits for Louis to do something. Mesmerized, unable, and unwilling to look away, Harry holds his breath. Finally, finally, Louis begins to close the gap between them, bending slowly to give Harry time to protest. Pushing him away is the last thing Harry would do.
Louis is close enough that Harry can hear the soft cadence of his breathing over the frenetic pounding of his own heart, can feel the warmth of Louis' breaths on his face, when a hawk screeches loudly and suddenly overhead and Louis jerks back, hand slipping back into the water and cheeks flushing bright red.
They watch each other for a minute while the forest settles around them and their heart rates slow, then Louis whispers, "We should head back toward the horses."
Harry's heart sinks. Disappointment weighting his limbs, Harry drops his feet to the riverbed and he and Louis make their way upstream, lips pressed firmly shut and hands brushing on occasion. Every brush of skin is a jolt to Harry's miserable heart, and he just wants to go back to the castle, to lock himself in his chambers and mope in peace. Their belongings are right where they left them, scattered haphazardly across a rock on the river bank, and the horses are grazing unconcernedly beside the boulder as if they've not just been left alone for an hour.
The ride back to the castle is silent and tense, and Liam watches the two of them in confusion as they dismount and turn the horses over to the stable hands without speaking. It isn't until they are stood at the fork in the castle corridor where they part to go to their separate chambers that Louis says, voice stiff and distressingly formal, "The tailor is coming to meet with us an hour before dinner. Stan will show you to my chambers when he arrives."
Harry nods, then watches Louis turn and walk away, doesn't head to his own room until Louis has disappeared from sight.
~
The sun is low in the sky and Harry is dozing on and off, lulled by the sound of waves on the shore, when a knock sounds on the door, startling him out of a wonderful dream. He and Louis had been married and living in a cottage nestled in the woods, had been lying in bed with Louis' hands cupped protectively over Harry's pregnant belly. He rubs his stomach, frowning when all he feels is muscle and a bit of softness at his sides. His dream had felt so real.
Another knock propels Harry out of bed. He shakes the disorientation from his limbs as he walks over to the door, eyelids still heavy and mind a bit sluggish with the remnants of sleep. Louis' attendant is standing on the other side and he bows with a murmured, "Your highness. Prince Louis and his tailor are ready for you."
The walk to Louis' chambers is brief, and they arrive to find Louis standing in the center of his room wearing only a pair of fitted trousers, legs spread and arms held aloft as a man stands before him with a measuring tape. It's not until the man turns to face them that Harry realizes the tape measure is moving of its own accord, measuring the length of Louis' calf and the inside of his thigh, while the tailor makes marks in a small journal. The tailor waves a hand and the tape drops to the floor, then steps forward with a small bow.
He winces as he straightens up and fists a hand in the small of his back, rubs his other hand over his swollen belly. "My apologies, sire, I hope you don't mind a bit of magic. Normally I would do all of the measuring myself, but as you can see, bending over is quite difficult at the moment. My name is Marius, I am Prince Louis' tailor."
All thoughts of sleep and fading dreams flee Harry's mind and he holds his hands out, asks excitedly, "May I?"
Marius nods him forward and Harry places his hands gently on his belly, thrilled and only the slightest bit jealous.
"How long do you have?" He asks, then erupts into delighted giggles when he feels a kick against his palm. "I think he likes me."
He looks up just in time to catch Louis watching him, expression soft and open. It makes Harry's chest ache, casts him back to his dream and the tender way Louis had looked at him, the reverence in his touch.
"Just two months left," Marius sighs, jolting Harry out of his thoughts. Louis drops his gaze to the floor, and Harry tries not to let his disappointment show on his face. "My husband is convinced this one is a boy, but I think it's a girl."
Harry bites his lip and rubs Marius's belly, thrilling every time the baby responds to him with little shuffling kicks. It's definitely a boy, Harry can feel it, but he won't tell Marius, doesn't want to ruin the surprise. Harry is so caught up in his baby-filled reverie that it takes Marius three tries to get his attention.
"I'm so sorry," Harry flushes, taking a step back and tucking his hands behind his back. "You probably want to get back to work so that you can go home. I'll just..."
He looks around the room for somewhere to sit, but the small sofa in the corner is covered in Marius's sewing kit and bolts of cloth, and all that is left is Louis' bed. Swallowing thickly, Harry makes his way over to it slowly, sits tentatively on the corner. When Louis doesn't comment, just watches him quietly for a moment with eyes gone dark and unreadable, Harry relaxes a bit. He shuffles back so that he can draw his knees up and rest his chin on them while he watches Louis get measured.
There's not much left to be done, but Harry watches the measuring tape with fascination. He loves his own magic, wouldn't trade it for anything, but he wonders what it would be like to be able to move things with only a flick of the hand. He gets lost somewhere between that thought and the dimples at the base of Louis' spine, is brought back to the present by Louis' hand on his cheek, chilled fingers tucking his hair behind his ear.
"Your turn, darling," Louis whispers.
Harry eases past Louis, careful not to touch him. His naked skin is too tempting by half, and he's not entirely sure he would have enough self-control to stop once he began.
"Remove your shirt, please, Prince Harry," Marius instructs.
Confused, Harry asks, "But I only need trousers?"
"I would like to have your measurements anyway, just in case you need shirts in the future," Marius says casually, nodding at his chest.
Still a bit bemused, Harry does as asked and tugs his shirt over his head. He moves as Marius tells him to, widens his stance and holds his arms out at his sides while the measuring tape stretches along the length of his forearm, wraps around his thigh, spans the breadth of his shoulders. He can feel Louis' eyes on his back the entire time, goosebumps spreading across his torso from the weight of his stare.
When all of his measurements have been taken, Harry tugs his shirt back on, then follows Marius over to the sofa to select some fabrics for his new trousers. By the time the fabrics have all been set aside, Stan is poking his head in the door to let them know that it's time for supper.
Harry spends all of supper trying to shake the feeling of Louis' eyes on him as he touched Marius's belly. He tells himself that it won't do to dream of how things could be, under different circumstances. He needs to dwell in the present, be realistic, protect his heart. And so he ignores the way Louis watches him throughout dinner, listens to Gemma's story about her French lesson with Princess Charlotte, and tells her about his swim in the river, though he leaves out the part where Louis had nearly kissed him. He doesn't realize how tense he is until Zayn closes a hand over his knee to try and still his frantic, nervous twitching. Harry leaves dinner feeling anxious and unsatisfied, declines Zayn's offer for a walk and instead retreats to his chambers to stretch and practice breathing exercises in an attempt to relax.
~
Louis draws to a halt in front of the wooden door and stares down the heavy brass knocker shaped like a mermaid. The sack he's holding is heavy, but nerves have his free hand frozen at his side. Inviting Harry to meet Marius had been a mistake. Seeing how carefully he had interacted with Marius, his reaction to his pregnancy, how delighted he had been at getting to touch Marius's belly, has left Louis a bit weak. He's been weak for Harry from the beginning if he's honest, never really stood a chance.
Before he can decide that this is a bad idea, Louis lifts his hand and knocks on the door. He hears a muffled thump and a moment later, the door is swinging open and Harry is standing there in just a pair of trousers, breathless, bare chest heaving. Louis' mouth goes dry and his hand convulses around the bag he's still clutching. The trousers are too tight, and Louis wants to close his hands over the softness of Harry's sides, mark up all of that smooth, pale skin with his mouth.
"Sorry," Harry gasps, shoving sweat-damp curls off his forehead. "I was meditating."
Louis raises an eyebrow and squeezes past Harry into the room. "I thought meditating was supposed to calm you down, not get you all...sweaty."
"There is this practice called Hatha yoga, I think it comes from India - nevermind, it's too complicated to explain. What's in the bag?"
Louis turns around from where he'd been looking around the room. Harry has taken over the space, put his mark over every surface. There are pots of flowers and creeping vines everywhere, and a painting of a field of wildflowers Louis supposes Zayn did hangs over the desk. Books are stacked on the table beside the bed, and there appears to be a small dish of food of some sort by the window.
"Are you still hungry? I can have Niall bring you some proper food."
"What?" Harry asks. Louis points toward the window, but Harry just laughs. "Oh, that's for the cat that lives in the ceiling."
Louis finds himself even more confused than before, but he just nods and lets it go. He turns to place the bag on Harry's bed so that he can open it and start pulling out the contents. "I've brought you your trousers. Marius wanted to deliver them himself, but I sent him home to rest."
"That was very kind of you," Harry murmurs, much closer than he had been a moment ago. He reaches past Louis, grazing his arm, to smooth a hand over the top of the pile. "They look wonderful. Shall I try them on?"
Before Louis can protest, Harry has already started to work his trousers off. It takes him a while to get them over his thighs, as they're much too tight, and Louis has to steady himself with a hand on the bed. He wants those thighs wrapped around his waist, wants to taste the sweat beaded at the base of Harry's neck, spread him out on the bed and explore every centimeter of skin. He doesn't breathe until the new trousers have been fastened around Harry's waist.
"Perfect," Harry confirms, smoothings his hands over the soft fabric. They cling to his thighs in a manner that should be illegal and does nothing to alleviate Louis' desire. He needs to get back to his own room, put some distance between himself and Harry. Before he leaves, though -
"There is one more thing." Louis turns to the bag where it's still sitting on the bed and pulls out one last item, hands it to Harry with unsteady hands.
Harry takes the garment, eyes wide and hands gentle as he unfolds it. His voice is quiet, awed, when he asks, "What is this?"
Louis coughs into his hand, fusses nervously with his fringe. "You said the shirt you wore when we went riding - you know, the day we took a tumble - was your favorite, and since it was ruined, I thought. I asked Marius to make it for you, I hope you like it."
"Louis," Harry whispers, eyes locked on the shirt pooled in his hands. "It's beautiful."
The shirt is lovely, made of peach colored silk with a pale pink and green flower print. The fabric is sheer and light, and while it's not an exact replica of the torn shirt, it's fairly close. Judging by the expression on Harry's face, he doesn't mind one bit.
Harry's eyes are bright when he looks up, smile wide, and he clutches the shirt to his chest, lets out a damp laugh. "But it's only been a few hours, how did he make all of this?"
"Magic," Louis shrugs. "Anyhow, I should be going. Sleep well, Harry. Enjoy your new clothes."
Before he can go, Harry grasps his shoulder and ducks in, brushes a soft kiss across his cheek. Louis' heart stops for several long beats, can't breathe until Harry draws back, cheeks flushed pink, and murmurs, "Thank you, Louis."
Louis forces himself to take a step back, out of Harry's orbit, and to make his way over to the door. Just before he reaches for the handle, he turns to look back, to call one last goodnight. Harry is still standing where he left him, staring down at the shirt with wonder as he strokes the tips of his fingers over the fabric, tracing flowers and the lines of the seams. He looks so happy, so enticingly beautiful, standing there barefoot in just a pair of tight black trousers while he marvels at the gift Louis has given him, and something inside of Louis clicks into place.
Shaking his head, Louis drops his hand from the doorknob and curls it into a fist. This is a bad idea, he tells himself, he shouldn't do this. In the end, though, his heart wins the battle against his mind, and he unclenches his fist, crosses the room with long, purposeful strides. Harry hears him at the last moment, looks up just as he comes to a stop in front of him, but before he can ask what the matter is, Louis is cupping his face in his hands and pulling him into a kiss.
They both freeze the moments their mouths meet, stand there unmoving for the span of a few heartbeats. But then Harry gasps, short and sweet, and Louis snaps into action. He slides one hand up into Harry's hair and tugs him closer, uses the other to pull the shirt gently out of Harry's grasp and toss it onto the bed. He doesn't want the shirt to tear, wants to feel Harry's hands on him, get his own hands on Harry as soon as possible.
As always, Harry doesn't make him wait long.
The moment Louis' teeth make contact with Harry's bottom lip, he moans, stumbling into Louis and grabbing at his shoulders. Louis slides his free hand around Harry's waist and holds him close, tugs gently on his hair and revels in the way a shiver ripples down Harry's spine and his mouth falls open. Every shift in angle, every glide of his tongue has Harry gasping and moaning, has him trembling in Louis' arms and clutching desperately at his shoulders.
Louis doesn't realize that he's trembling as well until Harry whines and pulls back, body shaking like a leaf. Louis clings to him, both arms around his waist now, and kisses along his jaw, down the side of his neck while Harry looks around. He doesn't open his eyes again until Harry whispers, "Louis. Louis, look!"
Louis blinks his eyes open, has to wait a moment for the haze to clear, but when it does - "Is that snow?"
"Louis," Harry breathes, grip on his shoulders tightening. "Are you doing this?"
"No!" Louis shakes his head rapidly, the fog of lust slowly lifting. The snow stops. "No, I can't, I don't have magic. I thought maybe, when I was younger, but it never..."
Harry's hand curls around the back of his neck, fingers like ice. Louis lets out a slightly hysterical laugh and clings to Harry tighter. It was just snowing. Inside.
Confused, amazed, Louis tips his head back a bit so he can see Harry's face, asks, "Do you have magic? Maybe you lost control."
"Yes, but not weather magic. Nature magic - flowers, trees, animals. Anything with life. Nothing like this."
Realization dawns on Louis, and he gasps, "The rose."
Harry bites his lip, finally looks at Louis, away from the dusting of snow covering the floor around them. "You're not angry, are you?"
"Of course not," Louis reassures him, lifting a hand to smooth his hair back from his face. Harry turns into the touch, noses at the palm of his hand, and Louis' heart aches. Snow forgotten, he draws Harry down into another kiss, loses himself in the softness of Harry's lips, the way he tastes of peppermint, the quiet noises he makes when Louis squeezes his hips.
His mouth is numb, senses dull and hazy when eventually Louis pulls away, and he buries a smile against Harry's neck at his mumbled protest. His limbs feel weak and his heart full, and he can't help the way he drags the pads of his fingers over Harry's kiss-swollen lips as he steps back, attempting to exercise a bit of restraint.
"I should go, love. Get some sleep, we'll see each other at breakfast in the morning."
Harry's hands stretch toward him, seeking, and he suggests, batting his eyelashes, "Stay here, we can get some sleep together."
Louis laughs and takes another step back, silently congratulating himself on his willpower.
"As tempting as that sounds, if I stayed, we would get no sleep tonight."
Harry's mouth drops open and he whines, watches Louis longingly as he backs toward the door.
"I don't need sleep, I rested before supper," he calls out, but Louis just shakes his head and blows him a kiss before slipping through the doorway and out into the corridor.
It's dark in the hall, the castle empty and silent around him, so Louis allows himself a moment to lean back against the door with a sigh. He has no idea what he's just gotten himself into, has a feeling it will not end happily, but he's tired of resisting. He's desperate for Harry, will take as much of him as he's willing to give, for as long as he can.