A/N: Welcome to Act II.
HARRY / PAST
I packed a small duffel bag for my trip to Paris: passport, itinerary, toiletries, socks, underwear, a light jacket, two pairs of slacks, a pair of jeans, two button-downs, two t-shirts, a cardigan and a suit for the ballet.
I would have three whole days to sightsee. Zayn lent me his DSLR camera and taught me how to use it. "I'll help you edit the images when you get back. If you take any good ones we can print them and hang them up in our room."
Zayn's sketches hung all over the walls of the dorm along with Louis' posters of footballers and dancers. I hoped I got some good shots so I'd have something of my own to put up.
Eleanor lent me a dog-eared guidebook, annotated with all the clubs and bars that didn't ID.
Gigi lent me one of her flowy silk scarves that she swore all the men in Paris wore.
Louis claimed he wasn't mad at me, though he hadn't said much until the day of the trip.
"Here," he said, dropping a pair of gold cufflinks into my palm. "My grandfather gave them to me when I got into RBS. You should wear them to the show."
I gripped them tightly. "I'll miss you."
"No you won't. You're going to have the time of your life."
"That doesn't mean I won't miss you."
"You're going to meet all sorts of important people. You won't be the same when you get back."
"Yes I will!" I couldn't imagine any three-day trip changing me that much and even if it did, it still wouldn't change the way I felt about Louis.
"When Beauchamp took Hans Faust to Paris his picture was in the society pages and he stopped talking to all his school friends."
I looked down at my scuffed sneakers and the khaki pants that hung off my waist. "Uh, I don't think I'll be making the society pages anytime soon. You don't have to worry about that."
I hugged Louis goodbye. He pressed his forehead to my shoulder and stood limply in my arms.
Outside, I met Beauchamp who was waiting for me along with the school's driver.
Louis was watching us in the window.
I waved.
***
I'd only been on a plane once, on a family trip to Spain. I'd never travelled alone, or without my mum. I felt very grown up standing in line at Heathrow with my passport. I was responsible for my own documents and luggage and everything.
Beauchamp kept to himself mostly. While we were sitting in the gate waiting to board he bought me a sandwich and a computer magazine. It was weird that there were magazines about computers. Don't people just go online to read about computers? But Beauchamp was around before computers were invented so I suppose it made sense to him. It was nice of him to buy something he thought I might like.
The flight was short but it was already late in Paris, so we headed straight to Beauchamp's apartment for the evening.
All of the buildings in Paris looked like they belonged on a postcard. Even the ugly buildings were pretty. I wanted to start taking pictures straight away but it was too dark out.
I had my nose in Eleanor's guidebook trying to figure out what I wanted to see the next day when Beauchamp lifted my chin and pointed outside. There was a giant billboard for Swan Lake, a stunning picture of his wife as the white swan. Louis' words: you won't be the same when you come back started to take on new meaning. I was going to stay with this famous dancer whose face was on a billboard in the center of Paris. I flushed with pride.
Beauchamp's building had one of those tiny elevators with a metal cage that you only see in old movies. I crammed inside with him and he grinned when I asked if I could close the grate behind us.
The building must have been hundreds of years old, with crown moldings, vaulted ceilings and intricate brass latticework running through the marble floors and walls.
When we got to his apartment door I straightened my jacket to look presentable for Irina. If the lobby looked so grand and beautiful, I could only imagine what their apartment looked like.
But when he opened the door there was only one room.
And one bed.
He entered the room and I walked tentatively behind him. I glanced around the space to see if I was missing something. I wasn't. In addition to this room there was just a tiny bathroom.
"Is your wife coming home soon?" I asked.
"Oh," he said dismissively, checking the messages on his phone. "She's staying at our other apartment."
Other apartment? Did he want me to stay in this apartment alone, I wondered. Maybe he and his wife didn't want to be disturbed. I was disappointed but it was understandable.
However, Beauchamp began to unpack his suitcase and hang his shirts up in the wardrobe. "It's late. We should go to bed so you can get up bright and early to go sightseeing."
I shifted uncomfortably by the door then opened my duffel bag. I hadn't packed any pajamas. I took the small bag with my toiletries and went into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I brushed my teeth and flossed and washed my face. The fluorescent light above the mirror buzzed and flickered like a dying firefly. I heard the sheets rustling in the next room. I sat on the edge of the tub for twenty, maybe thirty minutes, toeing the cool white tile.
Quietly, I unlocked the bathroom door and turned the tarnished brass knob. The room was dark so I had to feel my way around. When my eyes adjusted, I could see that Beauchamp was still awake. His hands were behind his head and his glasses on the nightstand. His face looked naked without them. He wasn't wearing any clothes, or at least none that I could see since he was under the covers. His grey hair looked like quicksilver in the moonlight. I could tell that he had been a dancer. His muscles looked painfully sharp and hard from decades of strain and overuse, retaining none of the softness of youth.
I picked up pillow next to him. "I'll take the floor."
"There's mice," he said. "Get in bed."
Still wearing my t-shirt and trousers I got in bed next to him and stared up at the ceiling.
"Aren't you going to get undressed?" he said. This wasn't a question, but a sharp order like the orders he gave in the studio.
I pulled off my shirt and lay back down, stiff as a board.
"Your pants too."
I don't know why I took them off. A part of me thought leaving them on would be rude, like I was implying he might try something. He was such an important man and he had been so kind to me by bringing me on this trip, I was terrified of insulting him.
I took off my pants.
I tried very hard to ignore him and fall asleep but whenever I glanced in his direction I could see that his eyes were still wide open.
I turned away from him and curled into a ball. That's when it started. He began to rub my back. His fingers trailed down my spine with the sickening slowness of a centipede.
"You're such a sweet boy, Harry. I'm glad I brought you on this trip. I made the right choice."
When I didn't respond, he added, "You're happy I picked you, aren't you?"
"Yes," I said in a tiny voice, half muffled by the pillow.
His fingers wandered down to the waistband of my underwear and I flinched violently.
"Hey," he said, "Calm down. You like boys don't you?"
Yes, I like boys, boys my own age! I screamed inside my head. Beauchamp was as old as my father.
"It's okay to like boys," he said.
"I know that." I tried to think of how an adult might navigate this situation. "I'm not in the mood."
Beauchamp's hand moved over my bare stomach. "I can fix that."
I didn't know what to do. It was the middle of the night. I was a kid alone in a strange city with only a bit of pocket money. I lay there gripping the edge of the bed thinking this couldn't be happening to me.
When he touched me again, in a more intimate place, I made my last plea: "I've never done it."
I was too young to know that this wouldn't stop him, that he probably already knew and it was exactly why he wanted me.
"That's okay, sweetheart. I'll teach you."
***
I don't think I slept that night, or if I did I dreamt of nothing but that dark room.
When I woke up the next morning my body hurt in the most humiliating way imaginable. I wanted to tear my flesh from my bones. I wanted to not be me.
I got in the shower and stood there unmoving as the scalding water fell over my head and shoulders. The night replayed in my mind over and over like images in a flipbook.
Why didn't I leave when I saw that we were sharing a room? Why didn't I call my mum? Why did I take my pants off? Why didn't I just sleep on the floor with the mice? Why? Why? Why?
I stepped into the room with a towel around my waist. Beauchamp was still undressed.
I padded over to my suitcase and frantically fished out my clothes when he came up behind me and placed a hand on my back. His fingers skimmed down to my waist and the towel dropped to the floor. This was when the reality of my situation began to sink in. I wouldn't be doing any sightseeing on this trip. I wasn't here because I was a promising student. I was here because of the things Beauchamp wanted to do to me. That was all. That was the only reason.
How could I have been stupid enough to think that I was a special dancer? I wasn't special. I was a charity case from Cheshire and the worst student in school. I was nothing. I was less than nothing, and now I was disgusting too. The things I did to him, the things he did to me... I hated him but I hated myself more. I didn't defend myself. I didn't fight, bite, kick or scream. I was weak. I let it happen.
And over the course of the trip I let it happen again and again and again. Each time there was less point of fighting. What was I fighting for anyways? Did I even have the right to say no when I gave in the first night? Who was I to say no? I was a nobody. It was better to just get through it, I reasoned. I just had to do whatever he asked and think about something else or let my mind go blank and not think of anything at all.
But by the second night I was so tired and my body hurt so bad I couldn't do it anymore. When Beauchamp was outside making a call I picked up the prescription sleeping pills on his dresser. If I were asleep he might let me be, at least until morning. The dosage was two tablets and I took three to make sure I would be completely knocked out. I popped the pills into my mouth—so desperate for a way out of my situation I barely gave it a second thought.
The pills worked mercifully fast. I lay down and fell into a deep, deliciously obliterating sleep.
I woke up what felt like hours later, groggy and disoriented, to Beauchamp shaking me. "How many did you take!" he yelled.
"Three." My mouth barely wrapped around the word. All of my muscles felt like sludge.
He slapped me across the face. "Are you stupid? Are you trying to get me in trouble?"
"No!" I cried. "I'm sorry, Sir, I just wanted to sleep."
"It's so bad having sex with me that you want to be unconscious, is that it?" he raged. "You think I'm ugly?"
"No!" I said quickly, cowering at the head of the bed. "It's not that at all!"
Beauchamp's face contorted into one of remorse. "I'm sorry, Harry." He took a deep breath. "I shouldn't have hit you. That was wrong of me. Come here."
I didn't move, so he sidled up next to me and pulled me into a hug. "You should have told me you wanted to sleep. I don't want there to be any secrets between us. I care about you. Do you care about me?"
I nodded drowsily. The drugs hadn't worn off yet and it felt like I was swimming in sand.
I couldn't hold my head up so he cradled me. "I hate fighting. Let's make up, shall we?" His hungry lips pressed against my numb ones.
That night was the worst of all. It was bad enough before but now I was awake and paralyzed in my own body because of the drugs. It went on forever, until I didn't even remember who or what I was anymore, until I felt like an animal, howling.
***
On our last day in Paris he told me to get dressed for the ballet. I should have been relieved that the trip was almost over, but I was afraid. I was leaving the room a completely different person than when I'd entered it. I was sure everyone would know what had happened to me. I was marked.
I went into my duffel bag and saw the camera and the guidebook and scarf. What would I tell everyone? They would expect to see pictures, to hear about the places I'd seen and the things that I had done. I felt sorry for my former self, the self that was excited to go to Paris, the self that still thought I was lucky and special. But I hated that self too. Stupid, I thought. I was so, so stupid.
I put on my suit and covered my face with shame at the sight of Louis' cufflinks. I was so embarrassed by what had happened to me. How could I ever face Louis again? I put the cufflinks back in my bag.
At the theatre, Beauchamp kept pointing out famous dancers and choreographers but I could barely remember anyone. All the faces blurred together. He introduced me to people in French and I nodded along like I understood what they were saying. He acted like nothing had happened. He treated me like he did in class or on the plane, like everything was normal.
We walked down to the belly of the theatre where the dressing rooms were. He entered one of the rooms without knocking. Inside was Irina. His wife. She was in costume and was the most exotic creature I'd ever seen. She had ebony hair coiled in a tight bun beneath a crown of white feathers. Her tutu was like spun glass and her bodice was encrusted with so many crystals it looked like armor.
She stretched her long neck and Beauchamp kissed her cheek, though his lips never made contact with her porcelain skin.
They talked business: the preview, reviews, her profile in L'Express. Theirs was a marriage of convenience, based on ambition and mutual self-interest. If Beauchamp was the cunning mind in this partnership, Irina was its ice-cold heart.
She looked me up and down and arched an eyebrow, her wide grey eyes made more feline by the thick stage makeup. "Alex, I can't believe you brought one of your... boys down here. What were you thinking?"
She knew. Mortified, I fidgeted with the hem of my jacket.
"Darling, I promised him he could meet you. What was I supposed to do?"
Shakily I extended my hand.
She recoiled, insulted by my very existence. "You better get to your seats."
When we sat down to watch the show, all I could think about was how much I hated ballet. I didn't want to see Swan Lake, I wanted to quit ballet school and go back to Cheshire and never so much as think about ballet ever again.
But when the curtains rose and the ballet started, I was transfixed. I didn't see Irina up there, I saw myself, my suffering made manifest.
The music swelled and I was carried away, convinced of its power. When the swan queen Odette was dragged away from Prince Siegfried by the sorcerer Von Rothbart in the second act, I was in agony for her. I clutched the armrest when Siegfried was tricked by Von Rothbart into marrying his daughter Odile, and then again when he realizes his mistake and its devastating consequences. In the fourth act, when Siegfried chooses to die alongside Odette, I wept. Tears streamed down my face and I sobbed into my sleeve uncontrollably.
A woman sitting next to us turned and looked at me, touched at my emotion. "Quel bel enfant!" she exclaimed, and in broken English, "I have never seen a boy so moved by the ballet. It is very beautiful."
Beauchamp smiled proudly and put an arm around me. "It's his first time."
***
I couldn't go back to Louis' room. I told Beauchamp and the driver to take me not to Jebsen House, but to Wolf House. As I was getting out of the car Beauchamp kissed me on the mouth, right in front of the driver. This wasn't affection, it was a threat, it was him saying, see, I can do this in front anyone. If you tell, no one will care.
Thankfully, my room at Wolf House was empty. My roommate must have gone out. I curled up on the bed fully dressed. I'd been at school for a whole semester and hadn't slept in this bed once. It didn't even have sheets.
Starved for sleep, I slept through the whole afternoon and through the night.
When I woke up the next day, Louis was beside me. It was Monday. I'd missed my morning classes.
"What are you doing here?" he said worriedly. "Why didn't you come home last night?"
Home.
"I'm sick. I got sick in Paris."
"Come back to Jebsen. I'll look after you." He pressed a hand to my forehead.
I rolled away from him. "I don't want to get you sick too."
"I don't care. I miss you too much. I want to hear all about your trip."
I squeezed my eyes tight to still my tears. "Just go."
Louis left but only for a few hours. When the school day was done, he came rushing back into the room with croissants and a café au lait.
"Bonjour mon ami!" He laid the croissants down next to my head. "French delicacies from our humble cafeteria. I bet the food you had in Paris was a hundred times better."
I hadn't eaten in three days. Beauchamp tried to feed me at his apartment but I wasn't hungry.
I took a bite and then another, feeling nourished for the first time in ages. I slurped the café au lait and lay back down.
"I'm sorry I was so moody about Beauchamp picking you," Louis said stroking my hair. "Do you forgive me?"
Hearing him say that name was like a knife in the gut. I wanted to tell Louis the truth but how could I tell him about all the disgusting things that were done to me without him thinking I was disgusting? Even if he didn't want to think it, he would never look at me the same way again. Or worse, what if he didn't believe me? Then I thought back to Irina, and the driver. What if Louis thought I liked it?
"I forgive you," I said.
I refused to go back to Jebsen House that night but Louis refused to leave me. I began to drift off to sleep again and he draped an arm around me.
It reminded me of when an animal dies and its mate refuses to leave the body. I was dead inside but Louis didn't know it yet.
***
The next day in rehearsal Beauchamp came up behind me and slipped his umbrella between my legs, roughly knocking them apart. "I said second position, Harry. Pay attention."
I ran out of the studio and threw up in the boys' washroom. I vowed then and there that I would never let him touch me again.
From that moment on I got to the studio early and I left late, rehearsing alone every single day. I would rehearse and perfect my technique every chance I got, even during lunch, much to Louis' dismay.
Sometimes I stayed in the studio so late I'd sleep there and wake up at dawn and start rehearsing alone all over again.
I was in the nurse's office constantly with inflammation in my tendons, sprains, stress fractures and jumper's knee.
After weeks of this punishing routine, I rarely made a mistake in front of Beauchamp during rehearsal, and when I did, and he came to correct me, I balled my hands into fists until my palms bled.
I hated dancing his choreography. It was like dancing inside a cage.
A/N: In case it isn't clear, Louis has no idea what happened to Harry, not in the past or the present.
This is not the fallout. That happens in the next 2 "past" chapters.
I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter. I tried to deal with the subject as sensitively as I could.
Were you expecting this to happen? Were you scared for Harry? Do you understand why he didn't tell Louis? Does it make you understand "present" Harry a little bit better?
Here's a clip of Act II from the real Paris Opera Ballet's production of Swan Lake.