A/N: If you have a ballet programme on hand you probably know where I'm going with this.
This chapter re-introduces a character from ACT I: CHAPTER THREE...
Harry looked up at me from the bed, cross-legged, chin resting on his hand.
I held up the programme triumphantly. It was so obvious. Why didn't I think of it sooner?
"I know someone who can help us!"
"Nobody in the company will help me, Louis. They all hate me right now—dancers the administration, everyone. I burned all my bridges at the Bolshoi too. The whole industry has it in for me."
"Harry, what's the most important part of the ballet?"
"Me."
"No, baby."
He scowled.
"The audience." Or more specifically, the patrons.
Harry made enemies of everyone he worked with, but outside the company London's elite adored him. He had a terrible reputation throughout the industry yet he was celebrated by virtually everyone else.
I flipped to the back of the programme and showed him the list of patrons. "Our generous benefactors."
"I don't need money," he said.
I pointed to the name Margaret Wexley. "She's not just rich. She's the heiress to a media empire. She owns newspapers and magazines all over the world. I was her date at the patron's dinner. She's the most powerful woman in Britain besides the Queen."
"You think she'd publish a piece on Beauchamp in one of her newspapers?"
"I think she could make him the most hated man on the planet if she wanted to."
Mags had countless investigative journalists at her disposal and those journalists did almost the exact same job as criminal investigators, only without the same limitations. They weren't bound by jurisdiction and they didn't have to meet the burden of proof required by the courts.
If we couldn't try the case in a court of law, we would try it in the court of public opinion.
The next morning we ventured off to the Wexley estate. I rented a car. If we were going there under better circumstances, driving through the lush green hills of the English countryside might have been romantic. Harry was nervous. He bounced his knee and clutched his seatbelt the whole ride there. I assured him that if this piece were published they wouldn't have to use his name. He was a victim. His identity would be protected.
We drove up the long gravely path to the main house, if you could call it a house. I felt like we just rolled up to the set of Downton Abbey. It was a square classical mansion built in the Jacobethan style with Italianate towers and Gothic arches.
The valet, a sleek gentleman in solid black, was waiting to take our car. He didn't speak. Then the estate's butler, an older man, approached and told us that Ms. Wexley was waiting for us in the greenhouse. The property was so vast he had to drive us there in a golf cart.
I was glad I dressed up a little. I was wearing tan slacks and a navy blazer. Harry wore one of his billowy blouses with his hair down. Even though he was raised in a lower middle class family, he appeared oddly at home in a place like this. He must have been a Duke in a past life.
Mags emerged from the greenhouse in a wide-brimmed hat and soiled gardening gloves. We hopped off the golf cart and she waved us over. I smiled. She was as spritely out here as she was on the dance floor.
"Why, I haven't seen such strapping young men on this property since the war!"
She was still a flirt.
She shook my hand and hugged Harry, then hurriedly led us into the greenhouse to show us her prize-winning orchids. The temperature rose dramatically once we were inside. The air was thick with humidity, the plants and flowers luxuriating in the tropical climate.
Harry wandered off to look at the dahlias. We had agreed that I would talk to Mags. I got her number from the interim assistant and called ahead. I told her we needed a favor. She knew from the tenor of my voice that it was serious but nothing more. Mags had been donating to The Royal Ballet for decades and she was pleased to hear from me. It was odd the relationship between performer and patron. Our lives were so different, our experiences worlds apart, and yet one could not exist without the other. There was an unspoken bond between us. She loved to watch us dance and we loved to dance for her.
I told her everything minus the details of the abuse because I didn't know them. She sprayed the long slender sepals of her bulbophyllum medusa as she listened, clutching the spray bottle tighter and tighter.
She didn't say a word after I told her, but continued to prune and spritz.
"We're telling the truth," I said.
She took off her gardening gloves. "Louis, I've been alive a long time. I've met many men like Alexander. His breed is not rare unfortunately. I believe you."
I exhaled with relief.
"What do you want to happen to him?"
"I want to expose him."
"Truthfully."
My hands curled into fists. "I want him to suffer."
Mags nodded conspiratorially. She was clearly no stranger to this type of request. She had made men like Beauchamp suffer before. The deep lines of her face, frozen in perpetual optimism, told me she could win this fight.
"The story needs to be vetted. I'll put my best team on it and give them as a large a research budget as they require. If there's something to find, rest assured those bloodhounds will find it, and when they do everyone from here to Tokyo will know what he is."
I was so grateful I could have cried.
"Thank you!" I held her frail shoulders in my hands. "Thank you."
Her milky gaze fell on Harry who was skimming the velvety flower petals with his fingers.
"What is he to you?" she asked.
It was a simple question but it stumped me. Harry was many things to me. He was my colleague, my rival, my best friend, my boyfriend, my lover. All of those titles were accurate but none of them felt right.
"He's everything to me," I answered.
She patted my back knowingly. I had to be so strong for Harry the past few days I hadn't really stopped to process the tremendous amount of guilt I was feeling.
"I wish it had happened to me and not him."
"Don't say that," she scolded, snapping her gloves at my chest.
"It's true!" I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. "You don't know what Harry was like back then. He wasn't like other boys. He was pure, so innocent that I was afraid to give him a single kiss! He was fragile and needed to be treated with care and Beauchamp smashed him into a million pieces."
Mags pruned the dying leaves of her dendrobium chrystianum. "You're wrong about him. He's not fragile. He's strong. He's alive when Hans is dead. He spoke the truth when the other victims chose to stay silent. He protected you when you couldn't protect yourself. You can't change the past, Louis, but you can honor his courage."
We heard a squeak from Harry on the other side of the greenhouse. My head whipped around.
He was covered in butterflies. They were on his hair, his cheek, his shoulders, his blouse, his hands, their colorful wings batting contentedly in his presence.
Mags shuffled around him in awe. "Remarkable. They must think you're a flower, Mr. Styles."
He looked at me helplessly. I smiled.
Together Mags and I lifted the butterflies off of him, careful not to crush their wings. We walked Harry out of the greenhouse and they fluttered wildly in a colorful cloud, like they could sense their sweetest rose was abandoning them.
Mags told us someone from the investigative team would be in touch to ask Harry some questions. She reassured him that his name wouldn't be included in the piece if it went to print.
We walked the long stretch of land back to the car. One of the wait staff brought us lemonades and Mags showed us around the property. I was worried it would be too much for her but she was in great shape for a woman in her eighties. It was Harry and I who were out of breath by the end.
The valet was waiting with our car. We said our goodbyes to Mags and thanked her profusely for her help.
As we were getting into the car, Harry stopped. He jumped out and ran back up to Mags.
"Tell them they can use my name."
I slowly approached. "Harry, are you sure?"
He shoved his hand in his pocket and pulled out a photograph. "Run the story with this photo."
It was the photo of him from Beauchamp's house.
Mags' gaze was steely. "I understand."
I was beginning to understand too. This wasn't my fight and it wasn't Mags' fight either. As much as I wanted to be the one to slay his dragons, this was Harry's battle. All I could do was stand by him. I was terrified for him but proud of him too. Mags was right. Harry was strong.
The sun was setting on the ride back. The green hills were dotted with sheep and bales of hay.
Harry was taking in the scenery. His nerves were gone. He didn't seem happy but rather at peace. He flipped down the visor to keep the sun out of his eyes.
He turned to me, brows knit. "You know, Louis, you never told me what happened on your date with Beauchamp."
I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white.
Harry searched my face. "Let me guess, he took you to the best restaurant in London, he called you his pet and said you were his favorite and that he wanted to spoil you."
"He spent 1,300 quid on a bottle of wine."
"I fucking hate that guy."
We looked at each other and burst out laughing. That was the most normal thing I had ever heard Harry say about Beauchamp.
"I wish it hadn't gone as far as it did. I was just so lonely and he was so—"
Harry winced and put up his hand. "I know what he's like."
I was silent. Harry still hadn't told me what exactly had happened to him. I didn't want to know but at the same time I felt like I had to.
"What happened to you in Kiev?"
Harry told me everything and nothing in a single sentence. "They laughed at me."
At night, the countryside was shrouded in darkness. Except the sky. The stars shone much brighter in the country than they did in the city.
I parked on a hill so we could listen to music and watch the stars. Harry was tired but I was so keen on the idea he indulged me. I crawled in the backseat and he followed. We'd brought a blanket along and I wrapped it around his shoulders.
If things had been different I would have taken him to a place just like this when we were teenagers. We would have snogged like crazy and talked for hours. Maybe we would have lost our virginity to each other. None of that happened. Our history was stolen from us.
Harry lay back like he was waiting for something. I tucked the blanket around him tighter in case there was a draft.
"Louis," he said. "You've barely touched me since you found out."
"You haven't been well," I said, making sure he was bundled up.
"If you're not attracted to me now that you know, I'll understand."
"What! No! I've never been more attracted to anyone, ever." I sat back. "That's the problem. Harry, I'm so ashamed about how I've acted. I was so pushy in bed, begging you to do things you didn't want to do. If I had any inkling of what you've been through I never would have asked that of you."
Harry kissed me in that slow mysterious way of his that made me desperate to know what he was thinking.
He opened his eyes and they met mine. "I want to."
"You don't have to do that. I love things the way they are."
Harry freed his hands and fidgeted with the edge of the blanket. "Louis, I've never given myself to someone. I've only been... Taken. I want to know what it's like. Maybe it will be different," he said, full of hope.
I smiled like I agreed but inside I was so sad for him.
"It's just..." he began, "I don't know how to like it. You like it. Why?"
I blushed. "Well, it makes me feel like I belong to you."
"And that's a good thing?"
"Yes!"
He peered outside at the moon, which was just a sliver. "Beauchamp was my first and my last. I didn't feel like I belonged to him. I felt like I wanted to die." He was getting frustrated with himself. "This was a stupid idea. I'll never learn how to like it. I'm too fucked up."
I held his hand. "What about before Beauchamp?"
"I was a virgin."
"What did you want to have happen? What was your fantasy?"
"You were my fantasy."
"Really?"
"Obviously! You were my crush and my first kiss. Who else would it be?"
"Okay, okay." I grinned. "What else?"
"This is embarrassing."
"Come on."
"I was only fifteen, so bear with me." He took a deep breath, starlight illuminating his delicate features as he spoke. "We're in our dorm room. I'm practicing my barre exercises on the windowsill and you're teaching me. Your hands are soft and you say nice things about my dancing. Then all of a sudden you kiss me! I kiss you back. You lead me over to the bed and undress me..." Harry looked away shyly. "Then you tell me I'm beautiful. You call me Lysander. You say you care about me and that you want to be with me. You touch me. You're gentle."
Harry's fantasy was so moving in its simplicity. He didn't ask for much. All he ever wanted was for someone to show him kindness.
"I can do all of those things!"
"It doesn't matter," he said sadly. "Beauchamp was my first. Nothing can change that."
"But he doesn't have to be your last. I love you, Lysander! You're the most beautiful person I've ever known. I want to be with you always."
His green eyes flashed with a yearning so deep I could have drowned in them. "I want to belong to you."
My heart was pounding. "When?"
"Soon."
A/N: Sorry to leave you hanging, but we'll get to all that in due time...
Hope you liked meeting Mags again. What do you think about their plan?
I posted this a little later than usual because I'm in San Francisco this week. It's freezing here! I spent the whole day indoors at the SFMOMA. I found an old ballet poster from 1959 in the typography exhibit.