A/N: This chapter makes reference to a character mentioned briefly in CHAPTER TEN.
LOUIS / PRESENT
It had been a pleasant Christmas. I brought Jeffrey home to meet my family, and later we went on a romantic ski trip to the Swiss Alps. He got on with my family and was an easy travel companion. Everything was perfect, but I longed to get back in the studio.
Jeffrey could sense this restlessness in me and remarked on how "far away" I seemed. I tried to be attentive. I listened to stories of him as teenager struggling to come out, I took him to his favorite restaurants, to the theater, I even indulged his need to go clubbing from time to time. He read the arts section aloud to me in bed every morning over coffee and we'd have a laugh about the bad reviews we agreed with and seethed about the ones we didn't.
I should have loved those cozy mornings in, but they were strained. I felt like I was watching myself play the part of the dutiful boyfriend. I did and said all the right things but for all the wrong reasons.
I went back to work the second week of January. On the icy steps of the Royal Opera House I breathed a sigh of relief. I was home.
I stripped off my jacket in the studio and heard loud banging on the other side of the door.
When I peeked out the studio window, I saw that pieces of the gauzy dreamlike set had been disassembled and were being carried out of the auditorium on the backs of the stage crew. The men grunted with annoyance under the heavy panels and Liam trailed behind them.
I opened the door and stuck my head out. "What's wrong with the set?"
He frowned, pressing his clipboard to his chest. "Nothing."
"Then why the hell are you having it disassembled?"
"I'm not. Harry is."
I stepped into the corridor and checked my watch. "We've been back from holiday for less than an hour and he's already barking orders?"
Liam leaned against the wall. It looked like he was about to collapse. "Harry didn't take a holiday. Apparently, he doesn't believe in them. I had to give up my own holiday to stay here and make sure he didn't burn the place down."
Just then Maurice swept up to us, carrying his small poodle Bijou under his arm. "That monster refuses to accept my choreography!" Maurice exclaimed. His dog yipped, bewildered by her owner's distress. I knew things had to be bad if he was bringing his dog in as reinforcement. He only brought in Bijou when he was feeling particularly harassed.
I put my hands on my hips resolutely. "I thought you let him change his solo?"
"I did!" Maurice screeched. "Now he wants to change Gigi's solo and the pas de quatre in Act Two!"
"It never ends," Liam moaned, rubbing his temples. "You give him an inch and he takes a mile."
It was chaos. Corps dancers poured out of Studio A, watching and whispering, while Gigi and Eleanor stormed down the corridor, half in costume from their fitting.
"Liam, why don't you just explain to him what's in his contract," I said, exasperated.
Liam raked his fingers through his short beard. "He refuses to come to the studio or even speak to me until his demands are met."
"He's holding the whole production hostage until he gets his way!" Gigi screamed like her hair was on fire. "This is my first time performing the lead in Swan Lake! It's the most important performance of my life! He's going to ruin this for me and all of us!"
I'd never seen Gigi get hysterical. She was used to being in control but none of us could control Harry.
"Have you tried going to his flat?" I suggested. "Maybe you need to convince him face to face."
Liam shook his head. "I've already tried that. So has Kenneth. He won't budge."
"Well, neither will I," Maurice sniffed.
"Nor should you," I agreed.
Harry had gone too far but I couldn't say that I was surprised. "I told you, Liam. I told you he would be a nightmare and here we are!"
"Now is not the time to gloat," Eleanor scolded, holding up the bodice of her half-finished black tutu. "What are we going to do?"
I was fresh out of ideas but they all looked at me like I was the answer.
"Go see him, Louis," Liam pleaded. "You used to be best friends. You're the closest to him out of all of us."
I laughed. "We're not best friends anymore in case you haven't noticed."
"Liam's right," said Gigi. "Even if you two hate each other, he might be convinced by a dancer rather than the administration."
"I wouldn't say we hate each other," I huffed. "Hate is a strong word..."
"So, it's settled then. Louis will talk to Harry."
How did I get roped into this? I followed Liam into his office and he scribbled Harry's address down on a piece of paper. I recognized the building number from a recent issue of Architectural Digest. He lived in a luxury ten-story flat on the Thames.
I held up the paper. "Oi! How much are you paying him?"
Liam swiveled me around and pushed me out the door. "He's worth every penny. Now bring him back."
I sure as hell wasn't going to go on this mission alone. The second I left Liam's office I recruited Zayn, who was rehearsing his solo in Studio B.
Gamely, he agreed and we headed out of the Opera House together. Zayn was having a hard time getting back into the swing of things at work. He and Gigi ditched both of their families for the holidays and went on a two-week bender in Ibiza. He fell into a deep sleep on the tube. I doubted he would be much help. I should have brought Niall.
Harry's flat was right on the Thames. It was windier and colder there than the interior of the city but also more beautiful, a place where you could take in the London Eye, Big Ben and the Tate. All the things that made the city great.
His name wasn't on the buzzer. Next to his flat number, 10B, was a white rectangle where his name should have been. Maybe he wanted to protect his anonymity or maybe he just couldn't be bothered with those details. I bet a flat like this wasn't even big deal to him. I would take pride in a place like this, and the details, especially the details.
I cleared my throat and pressed the buzzer. I was nervous. Why was I nervous?
Harry's voice was deep and staticy on the other end. "Hello?"
"It's me. Louis."
Dead silence.
Zayn piped up. "I'm here too. It's Zayn."
Harry buzzed us up. I was hurt that he wouldn't let me up alone. I shouldn't have been. We hadn't exactly patched things up.
Harry opened the door. He was wearing nothing but soft, flannel pajama bottoms that hung tantalizingly low off his narrow hips. "What do you want?"
"Happy New Year to you too."
He stepped aside and let us in. I was expecting to see fine antiques or furniture so modern its intended use was a mystery. I was expecting art and beauty and decadence in some form or another.
The place was completely empty. There was no furniture and it was disturbingly clean, bleached from top to bottom.
"So..." I said sarcastically. "Where do you hide the bodies?"
Without missing a beat, Harry answered, "In the walls."
Zayn chucked his bag in the corner. "You two are hil-ar-ious."
The room itself was extraordinary. Open concept with freshly waxed hardwood floors and a stainless steel chef's kitchen. The convex windows went all the way up to the second floor. It was like being inside an aircraft. I looked outside and felt like I was flying over the Thames.
I didn't understand why he hadn't done anything with the place. How could he live like this? Why would he live like this?
"Love what you've done with the place, Harold. Cozy."
"It's just a place to sleep," he said flatly. "I'm not here often."
"I can tell. Do you have a bed at least?" I didn't mean for that to come out the way it did.
Harry didn't seem to notice. "I do have a bed."
There was something strikingly familiar about the place. I didn't know quite what it was at first and then I realized: it looked just like a studio.
Zayn was making good use of the empty floor space, practicing his solo. Harry and I leaned on the kitchen island and watched him move against the grey London skyline. His wiry body was well suited to Maurice's precise choreography. He unfurled his limbs like a spider, slow and controlled. He would have made a good Von Rothbart, I thought, but Harry's interpretation was more than good, it was a triumph. Harry didn't just dance the choreography, he danced above it, somewhere between art and heaven, where he was untouchable.
The kitchen was as stark as the rest of the flat with the exception of a glass cupboard filled with medication. Harry obviously wasn't hiding it so I didn't feel intrusive reading the labels: tramadol, buprenorphine, diamorphine, fentanyl, hydromorphone, oxycodone, and pethidine. There were also sedatives: zolpidem, eszopiclone and zaleplon.
I recognized many of the names because my grandfather had been on several of these drugs for various illnesses at the later stages of his life.
"These are serious drugs, Harry."
"The pain killers are for my knee, the sedatives for my insomnia."
I knew enough about these drugs to know that you couldn't mix opioids with sedatives.
"You can't mix these," I said.
He went into the cupboard and took out the oxycodone with one hand and the zolpidem with the other. "I don't. Every day I choose between sleeplessness," he rattled the oxycodone, "or pain," he rattled the zolpidem. Then he tilted his head, curious. "Which do you think I choose, Louis?"
I felt my chest tighten because I knew the answer and at the same time I didn't want to know it. "Pain."
Harry smiled grimly. "You do know me, old friend."
I thought of Harry's dancing, how effortless he made it all look but also how powerful, like he possessed strengths that no other dancer had. It was the exact opposite. Every step he took must have been excruciating. There was a terrifying beauty in this, as though his suffering made his dancing that much more exquisite, that much more ephemeral and rare.
Harry was staring at his laptop now, which rested on the kitchen island. Since he hadn't offered us anything to drink and he couldn't offer us a seat, I decided to get straight to it. I couldn't let my weakness for him cloud my judgment. I had to stay strong. I was here for the sake of the company. I had a job to do. Everyone was counting on me.
"Harry, you can't always get your way. Now, I know that's not something you want to hear, and frankly I'm not sure that's something you can hear. Maurice isn't going to let you change any more of his choreography. Come back to rehearsal. Swallow your pride and be a man about it."
"That's not why I'm not at rehearsal," Harry said.
"That's what you told Kenneth and Liam."
He shrugged, rubbing his bare arms, his full lips in a doleful pout. "No. I just said I wasn't coming in."
I couldn't normally read Harry. He was always so focused on work his thoughts and feelings were impenetrable. But now, with his furrowed brow and listless voice, I could tell something was wrong.
"Are you okay?" I asked, placing a hand on his naked back. His skin felt like the taut satin of a ballet slipper. He was so cruel both to himself and to others I'd forgotten just how delicate he was.
He leaned into me slightly, not quite allowing himself to be held. I couldn't resist him when he was soft like this.
So much for staying strong.
I drew him closer. He looked down and a lock of hair fell in his eye. I brushed it back, so close to him now his floral scent washed over me. He gestured toward the screen of his laptop. It was an article on the BBC but the news item was from France: "Former Principal Dancer with the Paris Opera Ballet Found Dead in his Home. Suicide."
I recognized the name of the person in the article. It was a name I hadn't heard in years.
Hans Faust.
He had been a student at RBS. He was two years ahead of us and was hired by The Paris Opera Ballet before he'd even graduated. Now he was dead, found in his apartment in Montmartre. He hanged himself.
"Jesus," I whispered.
Zayn came over and tilted the screen. "Hans! Fuck. When did this happen?"
Harry dragged a hand through his dark, wavy locks. "Over the weekend."
It's always shocking when someone you know dies, especially when it's by their own hand. I didn't know Hans well but I admired his dancing, and from afar he had the perfect life. Plucked from school a year early to dance for one of the finest companies in the world, he had been popular and beloved by all our teachers and choreographers. He was gorgeous too, prettier than even the prettiest girls, with a head of golden curls that made him look like a cherub.
We talked about Hans and tried to figure out why he might take his own life. He was by all accounts successful, but that came with tremendous pressure too. The article said he quit the company a year ago to due personal issues. Zayn and I tried to come up with an answer: money or relationship problems, depression?
For someone who was so upset by this that he had to miss work, Harry was morbidly uninterested in why Hans did it. He was more focused on the details of the suicide itself. The time of day: morning. The method: bungee cord. The length of time it would have taken: 20 minutes. How much Hans suffered...
Then I stopped and thought for a minute. Harry wasn't at RBS when Hans was there. He enrolled the year after Hans left.
I lifted my hand off his back like I'd been burned. I looked at him quizzically. "You didn't go to school with Hans. He'd already left by the time you came to RBS."
Harry didn't say anything.
"What is this?" I said. Why would Harry an emotional cipher who didn't give a damn about anyone suddenly care about the death of a man he'd never met? "Were you trying to use this tragedy to manipulate me? Us?"
"Did you know him?" Zayn said quickly, not believing Harry was capable of being so calculating. I knew better.
"In a sense."
"In what sense?" I was fuming.
Harry slammed his laptop shut. "I don't have to explain myself to you, Louis. Believe what you want."
"You thought you could gain our sympathy and we'd lay off and say 'poor Harry, grieving his dead friend.' You were never friends with Hans! I doubt you two even met!"
Zayn's dark eyes darted between us uncomfortably. "You did know him, Harry... didn't you?"
Without even a hint of shame, Harry turned to Zayn. "Louis' right. Hans was never my friend. I never met him."
I shook my head. "You'll do or say anything to get your way, won't you?"
Harry slinked away from me.
"Why do I keep falling for this? Why do I keep trying with you?" I said, more to myself than to Harry.
He stared out the window. "I didn't need to know Hans to mourn him."
That was it. I'd had enough. I grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. "Don't say his name, you snake!"
"Louis!" Zayn barked. "Let's just go."
Harry threw me against the glass. If I looked down it felt like I was falling ten stories.
"Where do you think you are right now?" he said, all too calmly. "I'll tell you. You're in my home. I didn't ask you to come here."
I pushed back against his chest but he wouldn't budge. I was pinned there with his arms on either side of my waist, his breath beating down my neck, his lithe sinewy muscles threatening to crush me like a boa constrictor.
Zayn yanked him off of me. Harry's eyes were wild and murderous as he stumbled backward.
I straightened my shirt, flustered. Zayn picked up his bag. We rushed to the door.
"Tell Maurice I'll see him in the studio when he's implemented my notes on Gigi's solo and the pas de quatre. Until then, I'm not setting foot in the Opera House."
I opened the door, but Harry continued. "And Zayn, hope you weren't too attached to your solo. I'm giving it to one of the corps dancers."
"What?" he said, through clenched teeth.
Harry eyed me. "You have Louis to thank for that."
A/N: In case you don't remember, Hans Faust is the boy Beauchamp took to Paris a few years before he took Harry. Harry didn't know Hans personally but he did know this fact about him.
I wasn't trying to be melodramatic by having Hans kill himself. I did a bit of research and found a meta-analysis of 9 studies that showed that those who experienced sexual abuse before the age of 16 were more than twice as likely to attempt or complete suicide.
Next week's chapter is Harry and Beauchamp in Kiev...