Harry wasn’t sure how he got there but he sometimes thought it must have been fate. Standing in the creek, cool water swirling lazily around his legs and a beautiful golden body with its back turned just in front of him, he felt as if he must be dreaming. Louis’ shoulders were glowing in the afternoon light, his skin dripping with water as soap suds ran down the small of his back and floated away with the current. Harry was struck dumb, the bar of soap left useless against his belly, and when Louis glanced back his lips twisted in a smirk.
“You oughta close your mouth or you’ll catch flies,” Louis told him, drifting close enough to take the soap from Harry’s slack fingers. “Here,” he said, working it into a quick lather and running it over Harry’s chest. He felt the goosebumps that rose across his skin and his eyes sparkled in delight. Harry was always so sensitive to his touch. Louis hummed as he brought the bar lower on his belly, ducking his head to press a lazy kiss to Harry’s sun-pink shoulder.
They met on Harry’s wedding day in 1949 on a hot autumn evening that felt more like August than November. Harry had spent the day sweating in his suit and pulling anxiously at the tight cravat around his neck.
“Harold, stop that,” his mother had scolded, slapping lightly at his wrist. “You’ll wrinkle the silk.”
He folded his hands back in his lap and licked his chapped lips.
“I can’t believe you forgot to go to the barber,” she tutted, combing more pomade through his hair and ignoring his winces as the comb pulled at his scalp. “There’s no time to cut it now. We’ll just have to hope that your hat covers it.”
“It’ll be fine, Mama,” Gemma said, placing a placating hand on her arm and shooting Harry a soft smile. “Everyone’ll be too focused on Audrey to notice his hair.”
“You’re right,” Anne sighed, setting the comb down and smoothing the flat of her palm over Harry’s hair. “It’ll just have to do.”
The back room of the chapel was a mess of frantic bridesmaids and cloying hairspray and Harry had been shut out with loud shrieks about superstition every time he got within fifty feet on it. He’d been relegated to the small classroom where he’d gone to Sunday school as a child and told to stay there until it was time for the ceremony. When his family went to rejoin the guests and entertain his various aunts and uncles he was left alone, nothing but the saints on the walls to keep him company.
Everything sounded louder when he was alone. His footsteps and his breath and his heartbeat. The click of his glossy black dress shoes on the old stained linoleum reminded him of how badly the shoes pinched his toes and he wondered if he could take them off for a minute without his mother noticing. She’d probably notice, he decided, because she noticed everything. She had a special ability to find his flaws and point them out.
He could feel a blister forming on his right pinky toe.
He sat down on one of the miniature desks, afraid that he’d break any of the little chairs if he sat in one, and tried to slow the rapid pounding of his heart.
It would all be over in a couple of hours, he tried to reason with himself. He’d stand in his too-tight shoes in front of the altar and he’d nod along and speak when he was prompted to and he’d sign his name on the line and that would be that. He’d let Audrey do the talking at the reception - she was good at taking the lead in conversations. He’d hold her little hand in his and he’d kiss her powdery cheek and her red lips and his family would be happy. They’d be relieved to see him married at last, the burden of his bachelorhood finally put to rest.
No matter how he rationalized it he couldn’t stop the thudding in his ears and the stinging at the corners of his eyes.
It would be alright, he thought, being married to Audrey. She was smart, and nice enough. His mother loved her and his sister liked having somebody to shop and gossip with. She was the sort of girl who made his friends clap him on the back and ask how he landed her. She was the perfect girl, really, a hit at luncheons and always made up to the nines. Harry should feel lucky to be her groom, should be honored that she said yes.
Instead he was choking on his own breath and feeling as if he might faint.
Harry stumbled to his feet, throwing out his arm until he found the wood of the teacher’s desk. He leaned heavily against it as he moved towards the door. He needed air, needed to be somewhere without a million painted saints watching him so closely.
“Woah there, son,” Des said as he fell into the hall, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder. “Y’alright there?”
“Needa smoke,” Harry gritted out before fleeing towards the side door and shoving it open.
“Was that Harold?” he heard his mother ask nervously as the door fell shut behind him.
“It’s just nerves,” Des told her placatingly.
Harry was still struggling to breathe as he rounded the church, doubling over with his hands on his knees, sending his sleek black top hat into the dirt. Panic curled around his throat and squeezed it tighter and tighter as he pulled his cravat loose and undid the top three buttons of his shirt. From his spot beyond the manicured hedges he could hear the side door open and he squeezed his stinging eyes shut, feeling wetness gather on his lashes.
“Harold?” he heard. “Harold, where are you?”
“Give him a minute, Anne, - ”
“No,” she said, a frown evident in her voice. She called out again, her voice getting louder, “Harold, everybody is waiting!”
He could hear them coming closer, could hear other people coming through the door to investigate, and he didn’t think before scooping his hat up under his arm and running. He took off through the bushes, the wind rushing past his ears and drowning out the pounding of his heart. He ignored the pinching of his shoes and the sweat seeping into his suit as he ran blindly past the rows of cars and the marquee sign on the lawn beside the street. “IF I HAVE A FAITH THAT CAN MOVE MOUNTAINS, BUT DO NOT HAVE LOVE, I AM NOTHING,” the sign read, the letters blurring together as he passed. He ran until his legs were numb, knees bending mechanically and his muscles as gooey as hot tar. He fell to his knees, miles from the chapel, and threw up in the dirt. He coughed and sputtered, hot tears burning his cheeks, and spit the bile from his mouth.
He didn’t know how long he’d been there when the truck drove up but the sun was much lower in the sky and he’d long since moved to sit against an old oak tree. Many cars had driven past without a glance in his direction, mostly big delivery trucks and the occasional family car heading home from a weekend drive. He didn’t look up when the truck stopped or when the passenger side window was rolled down. He didn’t look up until he heard the voice drawl, “Y’alright?”
The man was leaning across the seat to peer out at him, chewing on a wad of tobacco as he waited for an answer. He wore a brown stetson hat that cast his face in shadow.
“Yeah,” Harry sniffed, looking back down to the hat in his lap. He’d been rolling the brim back and forth with his fingers, folding the silk and bending the stiff material.
“You’ll ruin your hat like that, you know,” the man told him with an accent that was thick and lazy and honey-sweet. “Looks expensive.”
“It’s already ruined,” Harry said, sighing sadly and crumpling the material in his hands.
“You been drinkin’?”
Harry snorted, glancing up with bleary eyes.
“No,” he said, shaking his head and smiling slightly. “My mother would kill me if I was drunk on my wedding day. Might have been a good idea though.”
The man frowned at him for a moment before he killed the engine of the truck, slid out and walked around to stand bowlegged in front of Harry. He used the back of one finger to tip back the brim of his hat, appraising Harry with one hand on his hip.
“I’m Louis,” he said, holding out his free hand.
“Harold,” Harry said, taking it. “Harry, I mean.”
“Do you need a ride somewhere?”
“I don’t know,” Harry said honestly. “I don’t know if...”
I don’t know if I can go back, he finished in his head.
The thought of going back had a fresh wave of nausea curling in his belly. His mother would be angry and his father would be disappointed. Everybody would have questions, ones he couldn’t answer. His sweaty fingers tightened again around his hat, his knuckles bone white.
Louis’ eyes flicked from the hat in his lap to the panic on his face, his jaw tight.
“You ever do any work on a farm?”
“Huh?” Harry said, squinting up at him through the setting sun.
“Have you ever done any farm work,” Louis rephrased. “Work with any animals? Plant a garden? Visit a petting zoo?”
“Umm,” Harry said, his fingers loosening. “I dunno. I like animals.”
“I’ve been meanin’a find a farmhand,” Louis explained, shifting his weight. “I could use an extra hand around the farm. I can’t pay much at the moment but if you work alright I can offer you a place to sleep and food to eat, whatever else you might need. At least until you figure out where you wanna to go.”
Harry frowned. The last time he’d been on a farm had been on a field trip in the fourth grade when he’d realised the cows they were petting were destined to be eaten and he’d cried the whole rest of the day. Some of the kids in his class who lived further on the edges of town had been members of the 4-H club and had gotten to raise animals but his parents would never have let him or Gemma bring an animal into their house. He didn’t know the first thing about farmwork.
“You don’t have to decide right this second,” Louis said when Harry still hadn’t responded. “I can give you a ride somewhere else if you’d like. But if you don’t have anywhere else to go you’d be welcome to come with me while you think it over. When you figure out where you’re gonna go I’d be happy to take you there.”
“Alright,” Harry nodded tentatively. He didn’t think he had any other options right then other than to sit there all night while it got colder and darker, waiting for somebody else to stumble upon him.
Louis spit his tobacco towards the bushes and offered his hand to pull Harry to his feet. He took the wrinkled hat from him and smoothed out the creases in the brim. Harry followed Louis to the truck and climbed up into the cab. It smelled sweet like hay and tobacco inside and when Harry looked through the back window he could see some metal pieces of machinery that he assumed belonged to some sort of farm equipment.
Louis started up the engine and pulled out onto the road and Harry turned his head to watch out the window as the world slid past. It was a long drive past valleys of sandy yellow grasses and endless lines of grape vines, old abandoned farm houses tucked beneath gnarled oak trees and large flat patches of produce. By the time they were surrounded by untamed hills and sprawling farmland the sky was a deep inky blue.
Harry kept glancing over at Louis in the dark, watching his profile as the lights of oncoming cars flashed past. His nose was straight and pointed, his lips small and pursed by the clench of his jaw. As the increasingly infrequent headlights streaked by the light caught on the red-brown beard on his chin and gave Harry quick flashes of the blue of his eyes.
“You can sleep on the couch tonight, if you’d like,” Louis told him when they got inside the farmhouse, hanging his hat on a hook by the door and toeing out of his boots. “If you stay longer we can find you somethin’ better.”
“Thank you,” Harry said and Louis nodded.
“Just holler if you need anything.”
He walked down the small hallway and disappeared behind an old wooden door.
Harry sat wearily on the edge of the couch and reached for the knitted blanket tossed over the back of it. Alone again in an unfamiliar house with nothing but his rumpled suit and his ruined hat he felt very small and very unsure. He peeled off his jacket, the fabric stiff with sweat and dust, and folded it carefully on the floor beside the couch. He winced as he untied his shoes and pulled them off, the blisters on his toes and up the backs of his heels stinging as they were exposed to the air. He pulled the blanket over himself and laid down across the age-flattened cushions, feeling his muscles deflate as his eyes slid shut.
Harry never officially made the decision to stay but by the third day he supposed that the decision had been made already. Louis hadn’t waited for Harry to ask before offering him jobs, little tasks around the farm that gave him something to do and an excuse to keep sleeping on the couch. Harry learned quickly and Louis was a patient teacher. He taught Harry how to milk a cow, how to disinfect an udder and how to muck a stall. On his third day at the farm Louis called him in from the field and led him to the old shed behind the house.
“You need better clothes,” he said, unlocking the padlock on the door.
Harry had been wearing his wedding suit each day, his trousers getting filthier and filthier as he waded through fields of cows and mucked stalls and the sleeves of his shirt creasing more and more from being rolled up above his elbows.
Louis pulled open the door to reveal piles of boxes and a few pieces of rusted farm equipment, a wrought iron daybed set against one wall without a mattress and an old sewing machine used to prop up some wagon wheels. “When I bought this place the owners left most of their things. There’s clothes in these trunks here.”
He lifted a big plow and moved the dirt-crusted metal off to the side, revealing a row of big wooden trunks.
“Look through there and see what you can find,” he instructed, stepping back towards the door. He paused, looking around the little shed. “Maybe we could move you out here, if you’d like. I think they had a farmhand living here before they sold it. We could clean it up a bit.”
Harry looked around at the dusty piles of discarded things and imagined living out there with them.
“Alright,” he said noncommittally and Louis nodded, leaving him to it.
The first trunk he opened spit a cloud of dust out at him and he sneezed, waving his hand around to try and clear the air. He found worn old dungarees folded inside it, big enough to wrap nearly around his waist when he held them up, along with brown work boots and soft flannel shirts. He kept digging, collecting a small pile of nightshirts and patched Levi’s and moth eaten sweaters. Shoved against the side of the trunk was a folded up green Army jacket, buried and forgotten beneath much older clothes in much larger sizes. Harry left it there, beneath a pair of large woolen trousers.
When he opened the second trunk he was prepared for the dust that flew up with the sudden movement and he held his breath until it settled. He found another pair of dungarees and smiled when they seemed to fit the width of his hips. He added them to his pile and peered curiously at the length of silk folded beneath them. When he touched it it felt like cool water against his fingertips, the fabric soft as rabbit’s fur against his skin. His heart leapt oddly in his chest as he lifted the silk from the trunk, holding it delicately by what he found to be a waistband and letting the fabric drip down to reveal a long white slip skirt with a length of lace stitched along the hem. Without thinking he held the skirt up to his waist as he had the dungarees, pinching the band against his belt.
A sound against the wall outside made him jump and he dropped the slip back into the trunk, his face going a violent shade of red.
He closed up the trunk, ignoring the other bits of linen and lace and satin peeking out from under the slip, and locked them all away. He gathered up his pile of dungarees and button ups and made his way back to the house.
Harry didn’t know where the straw-filled mattress came from but even with its lumps it made a better bed than the couch. He and Louis spent an afternoon cleaning up the shed and getting it to a livable condition. Harry was dusting the cobwebs from the corners when Louis lugged the mattress in and tossed it onto the bed.
“I coulda sworn there were some linens in one of these boxes,” he said, frowning at the boxes they’d stacked across the back wall. “If not we can get you some new ones.”
They worked through the boxes until they found one filled with bleach-stained bedding and sun-faded floral curtains. Louis helped him make up the bed, the two of them pulling sheets straight between them. Harry smoothed down the comforter and looked around the little room, the chipped wooden dresser now holding his meager collection of clothes and the various lamps Louis had given him to light it. When he glanced up Louis was looking at him.
He did that sometimes -- just watched him.
Harry noticed it usually at dinner when they’d sit together to eat whatever meal it had been his or Louis’ turn to cook and Harry would look up from his plate to find Louis’ eyes on him. He was always quiet when he watched him, like he was waiting for Harry to say something, but Harry never knew what he was supposed to say.
“Thank you,” he said for what must have been the thousandth time. “I’d probably still be sitting by the highway if you hadn’t driven up.”
“‘S nothing,” Louis shrugged. “It’s good to have an extra hand around.”
When Louis left Harry kept looking through the boxes, curious to see what else was hidden inside. In his hunt he unearthed a ceramic vase shaped like a pirate ship, a painting of a ballerina, a collection of porcelain figures (including one of Marie Antoinette, a mermaid, a whole family of ducks, a tiny boy and girl in cowboy costumes, George Washington and a rocking horse), a paper mache globe, a small wooden statue of the Virgin Mary, a wedding photo dated on the back as 1893, a collection of children’s books about forest animals wearing little clothes and a dried up watercolor kit with scraggly bristled brushes.
He stood on one of the sturdier boxes and used the hammer and nails that Louis had left to tack the faded curtains up on the walls and the ballerina painting across from his bed. He scattered some of the other treasures he’d found around the room, planning to pick some of the sourgrass from along the fence to put in the vase on the dresser. As he danced around depositing bits of color throughout the dreary room his eyes kept catching on the trunk in the corner.
He ignored it, setting a framed mirror and a glass dog statue on the lid.
“You need a shave.”
Harry made a sound of surprise in the back of his throat.
Louis had been looking at him again, watching him clean the dishes from dinner in the kitchen sink.
“We both do,” Louis decided, scratching his chin.
“I don’t have a razor,” Harry told him.
“You can use mine,” Louis said easily, going towards the hallway. “Meet me in the washroom when you’re finished.”
Harry had been living at the farm for two weeks and he’d begun to notice the patchy scraggly hairs appearing above his lip and across his cheeks days ago. He was hoping he could ignore them for a bit longer but apparently not. He rinsed off the last plate and dried his hands, following the sound of water to Louis’ washroom. He found Louis standing at the sink with some foam-specked water swirling in the basin. His bristly beard was nearly gone and he was staring hard into a round little mirror on the wall as he swept the straight blade over his skin, pulling at the muscles in his cheeks and lips to make the glide smoother. With one last swipe his skin was smooth and bare, the soft curve of his jaw and a patch of freckles on his cheek made visible. He dunked the razor under the water and shook the hair from it.
“Here,” he said, holding it out to Harry who took it from his wet hand. He offered Harry his spot in front of the mirror and Harry took it tentatively, leaning in to peer at the sparse but coarse hairs dotting his face. He looked down at the blade in his hand and frowned.
“I don’t - ” he began, pinking under Louis’ gaze. “I’ve always gone to the barber.”
“Sit,” Louis commanded without a thought, guiding him to sit on the edge of the metal tub. He took up a tin of shave soap and a round brush, already frothy from his own shave, and lathered it up again. He waited expectantly for a moment before Harry tilted his chin up to him and he brushed the foam over Harry’s jaw. The foam was cool against his skin and the bristles of the brush swept lightly up his cheeks, tickling when they brushed against his lips.
Louis took the razor from Harry’s limp fingers and tucked two fingers under Harry’s chin. He turned his head and brought the blade slowly down his cheek. Harry watched his face, from the firm set of his jaw to his heavily lidded eyes, and his heart beat quickly in his chest. The press of Louis’ fingers was gentle but firm as he guided Harry’s head to the right position, the razor gliding over his skin with little resistance. Harry inhaled a shaky breath as the blade swept down his neck and he felt Louis’ fingers twitch against his jaw. Louis was looking down at him from his place between Harry’s knees and Harry’s eyes caught a quick flash of his pink tongue as he licked his lips.
He traded the razor for a warm damp towel and wiped away the leftover foam with slow strokes that rubbed against the sensitive skin on Harry’s face. He gasped softly when the towel was swiped over his lips, feeling the press of Louis’ fingers through the terrycloth.
“Done,” Louis said, clearing his throat and dropping the towel over the side of the tub. In a flash he was gone and Harry was left with smooth skin and tingling lips.
Harry couldn’t stop thinking about the trunk.
It was like a siren’s song that captured his mind and kept itself swirling through his thoughts. It wasn’t until the second time Louis shaved his face that he opened it again. He was laying in bed, running his fingers over the baby-soft skin of his cheek and remembering the feeling of Louis’ fingers on his jaw when his eyes fell once again on the wooden trunk in the corner, his own face reflected in the mirror on the lid. He wondered what the silk slip would feel like against the freshly-shaven sensitive skin of his face.
He didn’t let himself think as he rolled off of the bed and knelt beside the trunk. There was no attack of dust when he lifted the lid, just smooth white silk that shone in the lamplight. He shot a quick glance to the closed door before taking the silk between his fingers and tentatively lifting it to his cheek. The soft glide of smooth against smooth sent a shiver down his spine and his eyes slid shut at the sensation. He rubbed the silk back and forth against his cheek and down his jaw, a wave of emotion dancing through his chest.
The lace hem brushed against his bare thigh, making his muscles jump at the tickling feeling. A flush crept up his neck at the sight of silk and lace pooling over his striped shorts. He let the slip hang lower, feeling the smooth silk slide over his thighs and down to his knees as he glanced again to the closed door. He stood slowly, keeping a nervous eye on the door, and undid the hook-and-eye closures holding the waistband shut. His blood was thrumming beneath his skin, fluttering at his pulse points like hummingbirds’ wings. He stepped unsteadily into the circle of the skirt and pulled it up over his hips, relishing in the feeling of soft silk against his bare legs. He did up the closures over his ribbed undershirt, all but the top three hooking together easily. He arched his back and forced the third clasp shut, pinching in the skin tight at his waist, but gave up on the top two. He smoothed his palms down the sides of his hips, feeling the grain of the fabric against his hands, and looked down at the slip that hung halfway down his calves. He bent his knees and flexed his ankles, making the fabric swish lightly around his legs. He pivoted in place, making the skirt flare out around his knees before fluttering back down to cling to his skin.
He felt like the ballerina in the painting on the wall, sleek and graceful and lovely.
He laid back down across the bed, letting the silk pool around his legs, and traced circles with his fingertips over the fabric. He fell asleep like that, draped in a puddle of silk.
“Why do you let me stay here?” Harry asked one evening when he and Louis were reclined together in the hay loft, each on their own stack of hay. It was nearing Christmas but the weather still refused to turn cold and they’d spent the day sweating as they tossed bales of straw up into the loft to keep them dry when the rain began in the coming months. They’d collapsed exhausted onto their piles when they finished and Louis had pulled a bottle of whiskey from some hidden spot among the tools. He’d unscrewed the cap and taken a deep swig before passing it over to Harry, pulling off his hat and running his fingers through his sweat-damp hair while Harry drank. The bottle went back and forth between them, its contents lowering to follow the sun sinking below the horizon outside. “You could’ve hired a real farm hand. One who actually knew what he was doing. Why’d you pick me?”
Louis took another sip of the whisky, a good portion of the bottle shared between them. Harry was wondering if he was going to answer or if Harry should have kept his mouth shut when Louis spoke.
“I know what it’s like not to know where to go.” He rolled the bottle between his palms and Harry frowned, waiting to hear if he’d say more. “You were too young for the draft, weren’t you.”
He didn’t say it as a question but Harry still nodded.
“I turned eighteen just after it ended.”
Louis smiled.
“A baby,” he teased.
“I’m not,” Harry frowned indignantly. “I’ll be twenty-two in just a couple of months.”
“And I’ll be twenty-eight in a couple weeks,” Louis countered. He looked down at the bottle in his hands and sighed. He took another deep swig of the whisky. “I spent three years in the army. I was drafted when I was twenty. They gave me a gun and a pair of boots and sent me to Europe to fight.”
“What was it like?” Harry asked. Everybody he knew had a brother or a cousin or a friend who had been sent to fight in the war and Harry always felt a bit like he’d cheated by missing the draft.
Louis snorted, one sharp push of breath through his nose.
“It was war,” he said dryly. “I was scared sh*tless every second.”
“Sorry,” Harry said softly, picking a bit of golden straw apart with his fingers.
“When I came back - ” Louis started, frowning at the bottle in his hands. “You know that story about the man who falls asleep and wakes up years and years later?”
“Rip Van Winkle,” Harry supplied, nodding.
“Yeah,” Louis said. “I felt like him. Like I’d been caught in a nightmare and when I woke up everythin’ was different. All my friends had moved out of Randall County and were settlin’ down with wives and kids. But I never wanted that.”
“The wife or the kids?” Harry asked, looking up from the ripped up straw in his lap.
Louis just swallowed another swig of the whiskey, quirking his eyebrow sardonically.
“I was supposed to be getting married when you found me,” Harry offered and Louis turned to look at him. He held out the bottle and Harry took it, looking at the neck where Louis’ lips had just been. “I couldn’t do it,” he said, fitting his lips around the bottle again and tilting it back. “My family must be furious but I just...”
He shook his head and passed the bottle back to Louis.
“I guess neither of us is really the marryin’ type, are we?” Louis asked with a wry sort of smile curling at his lips.
“No,” Harry agreed, a smile of his own mirrored on his lips. “I guess we’re not.”
Louis hadn’t brought many modern amenities to the farm but one of the few things he had was a large wooden radio that sat in the corner of the living room beside the fireplace. Louis always turned it on when they were in the house and he never changed the tuning. He claimed that news broadcasts only ever delivered bad news and he despised what he called ‘bobby-soxer’ music so the radio was always tuned to a station where a disc jockey with an accent thicker than Louis’ played country songs. The music that poured into the kitchen had been a godsend at first when their meals were all clinking silverware and stilted conversation and Harry was thankful for the jangly guitars and syrupy crooning voices that filled in the spaces. But once they started to talk it was hard to stop and soon the music faded to the background. Some nights they’d sit at the dinner table for hours beside emptied plates before one of them realized it was after midnight and remembered they were working farmers’ schedules.
“A meal this good deserves a drink just as fine,” Louis announced one night when Harry laid out two plates of steak and potatoes. He went to the little liquor cabinet against the wall and produced a glass bottle of aged brandy, his fingers making streaks in the dust that coated the outside of it. Louis was in high spirits. Earlier that day one of the companies that bought their milk had signed the papers to renew their contract and allowed Louis to negotiate a better deal for the farm. He poured a few too many fingers of the amber colored liquid into a pair of crystal glasses. “There y’are.”
He set one glass in front of Harry and cupped his hand over the back of Harry’s neck and squeezed for a beat, smiling warmly, before taking his own seat. Harry thanked him.
“C’mon,” Louis smiled, raising his glass. “We’re celebratin’.”
Harry clinked the rim of his glass against Louis’ and took a small sip, feeling the brandy warm his throat. They cut into the steaks and gradually drained their glasses until their cheeks were flushed pink and Harry’s head felt light and buoyant.
“Let me fill us back up,” Louis said when Harry went to clear their plates, grabbing their empty glasses. He uncorked the bottle and sloshed more brandy into Harry’s glass before pausing and co*cking his head towards the open door of the living room.
“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, looking up from the sink.
Louis just held up his finger and darted from the room. Harry watched the door curiously as the music grew louder, spilling from the living room to fill the kitchen. Louis came lumbering back in with the jaunty sounds of a fiddle and a drum, rocking unsteadily to the beat. He had a dippy sort of grin on his face as he held out his hand with a flourish. Harry wiped the soap suds from his hands on the bib of his dungarees and took Louis’ hand, shaking his head with a smile. Louis pulled him into a little jig, easily fitting his arm around Harry’s waist as he led him around the table, humming along to the song.
“Stay all night, stay a little longer. Dance all night, dance a little longer. Pull off your coat, throw it in the corner. Don’t see why you don’t stay a little longer.”
Harry just laughed and gripped tight to Louis’ hand and his shoulder as he was swept around the room, his boots dragging over the floor. Louis was laughing too, breathlessly, as he rocked them from foot to foot and spun them in circles. Harry expected Louis to let go when the song ended but one bled into two bled into three and Louis kept Harry in his arms as Tex Williams sang about cigarettes and Eddy Arnold sang about his Texarkana Baby. They were both pink-cheeked and stumbling by the end of the third song and when it transitioned into something slower and softer they leaned together, their chests heaving against each other. There was a fiddle drawing out a mournful cry as a piano picked out a plunky little tune.
“I love you sooooo much it hurts me,” the singer crooned and Louis slid his hand down Harry’s back, letting his hand rest over his belt loops. “Darlin’ that’s why I’m so blue.”
Their wild square dance had slowed along with the music, leaving them floating like logs in a river as they rotated together between the icebox and the kitchen sink. Harry stumbled over his heavy feet and his head lolled forward against Louis’ shoulder. Louis tightened his arms and it was getting harder to keep his head up straight so Harry left it there, letting his eyes flutter shut against Louis’ neck. He could smell the sweat beneath Louis’ flannel shirt and could feel Louis’ belly rise and fall against his own with each breath. He liked the feeling of Louis’ touch. He liked the strength of his arms and the softness of his skin and the smell of him. He liked the weight of his hand at the small of his back. Louis was still humming and when Harry brought his hand up and pressed his fingertips over Louis’ adam’s apple he could feel the vibrations of it.
Louis laughed, his belly jolting against Harry’s.
He tilted his face down towards Harry’s and his laughter swept across Harry’s mouth and filled his nose. The scent of his breath was hot and sweet and heady, like an exotic flower filled with honeyed nectar that would kill him with one sip. Harry wanted to taste it, to suckle it and gulp it down and drown in it. He wanted to crawl inside of Louis’ mouth and swim in the sweetness of his spit and breathe in nothing but his breath.
Without meaning to, he'd lifted his face closer, dragging his nose nearly to Louis’ lips, and Louis had stopped laughing.
The music was still playing but they’d stopped dancing.
Louis’ eyes were dark and Harry could feel his fingers clenched tight behind him, nearly clawing at the muscles of his back. Each breath Louis let out made Harry feel bigger and lighter as if he were a balloon that Louis had his lips sealed to and he suddenly felt all too drunk.
He lurched back, knocking over a chair and only barely catching himself on the table to keep from falling. Louis’ hands fell limply to his sides.
“I should go,” Harry said, voice crackling over the words. He cleared his throat. “Early morning tomorrow.”
“Of course,” Louis nodded, flexing his fingers into little fists and bending to right the chair. Neither of them mentioned that it was barely past nine. “G’night.”
“Night.”
Harry rushed outside to the shed and kicked off his boots, unclipping his dungarees with shaking fingers. His eyes were drug back to the trunk in the corner like a magnet and he frowned at it. He’d spent many nights since he first tried on the slip kneeling before the trunk, just as he had kneeled beside his bed as a child to pray, delving into the collection of lace and linen and silk. It was like a tide pool, a small slice of an endless sea at his fingertips. The trunk called to him, begging to be explored once more, but he turned away.
He didn’t open the trunk that night, didn’t pull out any of the dresses or skirts inside of it. Instead he tore the rough denim from his legs and balled it up and threw it over the trunk as if hiding it from view would stop him from wanting it. He crawled into his lumpy little bed and pulled the old moth eaten blankets up over his shoulders but he didn’t sleep. He laid awake for hours with his bottom lip pinched between two fingers and a heavy lump in his throat.
Louis’ birthday brought a cold wind that kept the big white clouds moving quickly across the sky. In Harry’s search for a warmer sweater he was brought once again to the wooden trunk. He sat for a long time appraising the mass of robin’s egg blue wool he’d unearthed, wondering if it could pass as a men’s sweater if the peach and white roses stitched across the front were covered. He buttoned the bib of his brown dungarees over his chest and twisted before the mirror. The roses were safely hidden away, covered by the stiff cloth, but still he felt a little thrill as he stepped outside his little shed.
While Louis was in town buying supplies for an upcoming storm that was being forecast Harry took over the kitchen in the house, flipping through recipe books and searching out pans and bowls and whisks. He danced about, cracking eggs and measuring out sugar and baking soda, leaving a trail of flour and egg shells in his wake. By the time Louis got back inside there was a steaming bowl of stew waiting for him in front of a rather lopsided deflated cake iced with thick yellow frosting and topped with a pile of sprinkles.
“Happy birthday,” Harry grinned proudly as he sat down.
“Thank you,” Louis laughed, digging into his dinner. “This is perfect. Just the thing for a day like today.”
They laughed and joked as they ate over the soft sound of music from the living room and when they finished Harry got out a knife to cut the cake.
“I couldn’t find any candles for it,” he said apologetically. “I looked in all the drawers but I couldn’t find any little ones.”
“That’s alright,” Louis told him easily. “I haven’t had a birthday cake in years.”
Harry frowned at that and placed a big slice on one of the little saucers he found in the cabinet. He set it in front of Louis and watched expectantly as the older man picked up his fork.
“I worked in a bakery when I was younger,” he said as Louis lifted a bit of cake up to his mouth. “I got to help with lots of cakes.”
“Hmm,” Louis said, smiling as he chewed. “It’s wonderful, thank you.”
Harry watched as he took another forkful.
“You like it?” he asked eagerly.
“It’s great,” Louis nodded. “What kind is it?”
“Vanilla,” Harry told him, cutting a slice for himself. “With lemon frosting.”
“Ah,” Louis said, still smiling. There was a little smear of yellow frosting across his teeth.
Harry’s eyes narrowed as we watched him swallow.
“You hate it.”
“What?” Louis asked, looking surprised. “No, I just told you. It’s great.”
Harry took his own bite of the cake, ignoring Louis’ hand that flew up to stop him, and gagged. He’d poured in far too much vanilla extract and almost enough salt to distract from it. The texture of the cake was dense and gummy and Harry had to empty his glass of water to get rid of the taste in his mouth after he’d spit it out.
“That’s awful,” he groaned, hiding his face in his hands. “I can’t believe you ate any of it. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not so bad,” Louis told him, reaching over the table to place his hand on Harry’s wrist. “Really, the frosting came out perfect.”
“The frosting’s as thick as cement,” Harry said, looking up at him despondently.
“That’s exactly how I like it,” Louis grinned, scooping a glob of frosting off the top with his fork and plopping it in his mouth.
“Stop eating it,” Harry told him, taking the plate with the cake and scraping it all into the garbage.
“Harry, really,” Louis said, catching him by the wrist and making him stop beside the table. “Thank you. It’s been a long time since anybody’s baked me a cake. It doesn’t matter how it tasted - it was sweet of you to do, Darlin’.”
Harry pinked under the weight of Louis’ gaze and he let his eyes fall to where Louis’ fingers were wrapped around his wrist. He remembered the feeling of Louis’ hand in his when they’d danced.
He remembered the feeling of Louis’ body pressed against his own.
“You’re welcome.”
He meant to take the saucer from in front of Louis but when he leaned down to reach for it he instead found himself leaning closer to Louis. Suddenly his lips were pressed to Louis’ cheek and he had just a moment to register the sharp press of stubble against his lips and the scent of Louis’ aftershave and the way Louis’ fingers tightened around his wrist before he was pulling back.
“Happy birthday,” Harry murmured, his eyes downcast. He was still leaning over Louis’ chair but when he made to step back he was stopped by a quick grip on his chin.
Louis was leaning back in his chair, pushed back from the table, and he had Harry’s chin caught between his thumb and the side of his forefinger, exactly as he did when he shaved Harry’s face. Harry froze, his throat bobbing dryly. His wrist was still held tight in Louis’ other hand and his knee was pressed against Louis’ thigh. Harry’s heartbeat pounded in his ears as Louis’ Medusa gaze ran over his eyes and his lips and his throat and Harry wondered if Louis could see the heavy pulse of blood in his jugular.
“Darlin’,” he said in a whisper that curled around Harry’s ears. The word sounded broken, like a shard of shattered porcelain, and there was a look in his eyes that Harry couldn’t translate. He uncurled his fingers from Harry’s wrist until just the pads of his fingers were resting against Harry’s skin but he tightened his gentle grip on Harry’s chin, just slightly.
The press of Louis’ fingers against his jaw was the only thing keeping Harry upright so when he began to lower his hand Harry followed easily. He moved slowly, as if fighting through molasses, and brought Harry closer and closer into his space. His breath fanned across Harry’s face, scalding hot and cool as spring water, thick and sweet with sugar. Harry curled the fingers of his free hand around the edge of the table to keep his balance as Louis pulled him closer still.
Louis was staring at his mouth as if it held every answer in the universe. There was a desire in his eyes that Harry had never seen before and it made his body ache beneath his gaze. When he glanced up to meet Harry’s eyes there was a question in his and Harry hoped that he saw an answer in return.
The soft brush of Louis’ lips against his sent a shiver down Harry’s spine. It was better than the touch of silk, better than anything he’d ever felt. He wondered briefly how anything could feel better before Louis was moving to cup his jaw with his palm, his other hand settling at his waist, and Harry’s knees were buckling as Louis crushed their mouths together. Louis just scooped him side-saddle onto his lap, tucking Harry against his chest and kissing him again. Harry gasped into it, sucking in a wet gulp of heady sugar-soaked air, and clutched at Louis’ shirt as if a few fistfuls of flannel would keep him from being flung out to space. Louis was all around him, a thick cloud of sweat and tobacco and sweet hay that made him feel more intoxicated than any brandy.
Harry had been kissed before, but never like this.
He’d shared sweet, curious kisses behind bleachers and in soda shop booths, one or two more daring ones in cars parked on dark suburban streets, but the girls he’d kissed had never filled him with the desperation that erupted from Louis’ touch. He parted his lips and pulled him closer, as though he could breathe Louis straight into his lungs, as if he could swallow him. He wanted to consume Louis the way he consumed the body and blood of Christ. He wanted to place Louis on his tongue and feel him dissolve into a frothy mess of starch and saliva. He wanted to gulp him down until his teeth were stained purple and he was drunk on him. He wanted him in some violent holy way that made his hands shake where they were twisted in Louis’ shirt.
Louis carded his fingers through Harry’s hair in long soothing strokes and licked into his mouth, replacing the bitter taste of vanilla and salt with the thick lemony frosting that still coated his tongue. Harry felt drunk off of it, letting his tongue slide against Louis’ and feeling the vibrations of Louis’ throat when he groaned. He swallowed greedily, searching out more of the syrupy sweetness of Louis’ mouth as if it held the elixir of life. And Louis let him, his thumb pressing reassuringly against Harry’s jaw, letting him take as much as he wanted.
They didn’t part until Harry’s lungs were burning and his lips were swollen and sore. He pressed his forehead against Louis’ shoulder and breathed heavily, trying to slow his heart. He could feel Louis’ breath blowing across his neck from where his cheek rested above Harry’s ear. Louis’ hands slid down his back and under the straps of his dungarees, exploring the feverish skin beneath his woolen sweater, and Harry moved to nose softly behind Louis’ ear.
“Thank you,” Louis said quietly, pressing a kiss to Harry’s temple while he traced down the knobs of his spine.
“For what?”
“I didn’t think I’d ever have a kiss like that again,” Louis told him, a melancholy sort of smile on his swollen lips. He raised his hand to Harry’s face, following the line of his cheek with his fingertips and watching reverently as Harry turned his head to kiss the pads of his fingers.
He leaned in and sealed their lips together, proving Louis wrong again and again and again.
They didn’t talk about the kiss, didn’t ask what it meant for them or if it was a mistake, but they didn’t stop kissing. It was added into their routine, like the coffee that Louis had brewing each morning when Harry came to the kitchen door and the cows that Harry milked in the morning and that Louis milked at night. Only now the coffee came with a kiss in the doorway and now Louis kept him company during the morning milking, teasingly critiquing his grip and offering tips.
Harry didn’t know what it meant to Louis but to him it meant the world.
He’d kissed one man before Louis, a classmate who had gotten too drunk at an end-of-semester party and had been celebrating a good grade on a particularly arduous exam. After a round of shots that left him pink-cheeked and giggling the man had scooped Harry into his arms and planted a loud smacking kiss against his lips. The crowd around them had laughed joyously, raising their drinks in the air in a toast, and the man released him. Attention was quickly turned to the girl who’d fallen over on the dance floor and Harry was left with tingling lips and a racing mind. He’d walked home that night in a daze, returning to his dorm and laying awake for hours. His skin prickled with the memory of the man’s stubble, his muscles aching with the ghost of his embrace. He’d biten his lip raw, wondering why a quick peck from a classmate he’d never spoken to had felt like more of a kiss than any of the ones he’d shared with the girls he had gone with.
Harry had avoided parties after that.
He knew that he shouldn’t want Louis the way that he did. He wasn’t supposed to stare at Louis’ mouth until his own filled with spit and he wasn’t supposed to stare at Louis’ hands in his brown leather work gloves until sweat was prickling under his arms and down his spine. He wasn’t supposed to want Louis, just the way that he wasn’t supposed to want the soft flimsy things locked in the old wooden trunk. That didn’t change the way his stomach swooped when he thought about either of them though.
“A few of the cows are pregnant, you know,” Louis told him one day while they were fixing the door of the barn where one of the cows had knocked it crooked.
“Oh?” Harry asked, holding out another screw when Louis motioned for it. It never really felt like winter in California but it was getting colder and colder and Harry was eager to get back inside.
“Yeah,” Louis nodded, frowning at the door hinge he was working on. “It’s not long until calving season. You could help, if you want. If you’re still here, I mean.”
“I don’t know anything about cow births,” Harry told him and Louis’ frown deepened. “I could learn though.”
A tentative smile broke across Louis’ face and his eyes locked with Harry’s.
“I could teach you,” he offered.
“Alright,” Harry nodded, ducking his head to hide his own smile. “Yeah.”
To celebrate the mended door Louis pushed him back against it and kissed him breathless.
Harry had always loved playing dress up. When they were children he and Gemma had a big box of costumes and old clothes that they loved to play with. Harry loved letting Gemma button him up in her old dresses and pin barrettes into his hair. It was fun being draped in capes and twirling in long skirts, but as soon as he started school his parents got rid of the box and all of the beautiful things inside. They insisted that he’d outgrown them and so he was left with his starched little shirts and scratchy wool pants.
He had nearly forgotten about that old box of clothes but the trunk in his little shed brought the memories back. The old woman who had lived in the house was apparently the kind who liked to collect things and rarely threw anything away. It was lucky for Harry who delighted in her hoards of nick-knacks and jewelry and old, faded clothes. Every day he went out and helped Louis around the farm, the two of them tugging each other in by the straps of their dungarees to steal kisses as they passed in the barn, and every night after dinner he lit two oil lamps in his room and delved into the trunks. He didn’t know if the old woman they belonged to had died or if she’d simply moved away but he hoped she didn’t mind him borrowing her things.
He’d catalogued each of the clothing trunks, finding four plain linen day dresses, two feed sack dresses, two sensible tea-length skirts, five blouses, two pairs of bloomers, one girdle, two full slips, two skirt slips, one large brassiere, four pairs of well-worn shoes, seven little hats, three handbags, five-and-a-half pairs of earrings, one pearl necklace, three pairs of silk stockings, four pairs of gloves, one very old wedding dress with very large sleeves and one veil that was torn near the bottom.
He found a routine.
Each night he peeled off his grimy work clothes and washed up with the pitcher and basin beside his bed before laying the old clothes out and pulling on one piece at a time, discovering what fit and what felt nicest against his skin.
There was a safety in the old shed that he’d never felt before. At home he always knew that his mother would go through his things when she came in to clean and at school there was always the threat of roommates walking in at any moment. It was the first time he’d ever had privacy, a room of his own away from prying eyes where nobody would ever know that he liked the look of flowery women’s blouses or that he’d tried to wrap his hair up in the dusty foam rollers he found in a box (they hadn’t done anything because his hair was too short so he’d packed them back away but that was beside the point). He was free in the little shed to wear and do as he pleased for the first time in his life.
He’d been following Louis around all day, helping to ready the farm for calving season. There was dirt caked beneath his fingernails and his face felt grimey with dried sweat. It was a relief to scrub it all away and drop his dirty muddy clothes to the floor. He always made sure his hands were clean before he touched the trunk, always careful to keep the clothes inside spotless and pristine.
The slip felt like heaven against his bare skin, the cool silk caressing his sore legs and soothing the aches of the day. He looked over his treasures contemplatively before lifting the pearl necklace over his head and letting the pearls settle against his clavicle. He liked the way the light reflected on the creamy surface, mirrored in the shiny silk skirt. He hummed to himself, swaying and letting the pearls roll over his naked chest. In the low light they nearly blended in with his pale skin. On a whim he reached for the wedding veil, threading the combs through his short hair to secure it. The old Victorian lace hung down to skim lightly over the floor, yellowed with age and fraying in places. He made a few little turns, watching the tulle flutter through the air.
He glanced in the mirror, liking the long line of himself reflected in the surface. He felt tall and lithe, the skirt accentuating the length of his legs and the gossamer veil softening his edges. He reached for a pair of frilly little lace gloves - one of the few truly frivolous things he’d found in the trunk - and slipped them onto his hands. They were a bit tight, the ditches between the fingers barely passing his second knuckles, but he liked the lace ruffles around his wrists.
He pressed his fingers against his chin, tilting his head and posing in the mirror like a prima donna having her portrait taken. He laughed to himself, throwing out his arms and sweeping across the room just to feel all of the fabric flutter and trail behind him. He imagined himself a bride, waltzing with his groom in the moonlight. The weight of the day lifted from his shoulders as he danced through the room, whirling around as if from the front of a stage or the top of a music box. He -
“Oh!”
Harry froze, stumbling as he whipped around.
Louis stood with one hand on the doorknob, the other holding a bundle of blankets. His eyes were wide and his mouth was stuck open in a surprised little ‘o’. Harry scrambled back on instinct, pressing against the bed frame in a defensive position. The fear on his face made Louis snap out of his shock and he took a tentative step into the room.
“I’m sorry,” he said, lifting the hand that had held the door as if calming a wild animal. “I knocked. I thought you might be asleep. I didn’t expect... I mean, I just. I brought you some blankets.”
Harry didn’t say anything, just watched him with big frightened eyes.
“It’s supposed to be cold tonight,” Louis explained. He stepped slowly towards the stool near the door and set the pile of blankets down. “I wanted to make sure you were warm enough out here.”
Still Harry stayed silent, wrapping his arms around himself where he was cornered against the bed.
Louis looked up at him, his posture still lowered, and swallowed.
“Did you find all that in here?” he asked, his tone casual.
Harry nodded, his arms crossed over his bare chest.
“It looks nice,” Louis told him. “I’m glad someone’s getting some use out of these old things.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Louis said, smiling softly. “You look pretty, Darlin’.”
Harry waited for Louis to laugh, for his kind expression to turn cruel.
“Can I see?” Louis asked, stepping closer.
Harry let him, ducking his head shyly as Louis came to stand before him. Gentle hands took hold of his wrists and uncrossed his arms before fingers were skimming over his hips. When Harry glanced up through his lashes he saw Louis staring reverently back at him.
“Christ, Darlin’,” he breathed, his voice hoarse, “you’re like a dream.”
Emotions flooded through Harry, making tears well up in his eyes.
“You mean it?” he asked, his throat tight.
“Yeah,” Louis promised, rubbing his thumbs over the satin at Harry’s waist. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Louis’ lips were soft against Harry’s and Harry melted into his touch. He clung to Louis’ shoulders as if his legs would give out at any moment as Louis explored the expanse of pale skin and satin beneath his hands. He kissed across Harry’s cheeks, brushing his lips over Harry’s damp eyelashes, and smiled.
“You’re alright, Sweetheart,” he said softly, wrapping his arms tight around Harry’s waist. “We’ve all worn a dress or two in our time.”
Harry made an incredulous sort of sound in the back of his throat and pulled back to look questioningly at Louis.
“A lot happens in the barracks that isn’t reported back to Uncle Sam,” Louis grinned, pressing his forehead to Harry’s and looking down at where their chests pressed together. “You’re much prettier than any of those army boys, though.”
Harry still couldn’t quite fall into Louis’ sweet words, apprehensive to accept the kindness after so many years of denying himself even the fantasy of such a welcome embrace. He trembled under Louis’ gentle touch.
“You don’t believe me, do you, Darlin’?” Louis asked softly, cupping his face as if cradling an injured bird. “You know I don’t care what you do here, what you wear. With everything I’ve done in my life you think I’d care about a bit of silk? It’d be mighty hypocritical of me, wouldn’t it? Besides,” he continued, grinning, “I’d hate to discourage more of this. You’re breathtaking in those old dungarees but Darlin’ like this...” He trailed off, sweeping adoring eyes over Harry’s figure. “You’re something else.”
Harry flushed down to his chest, the pink of it contrasting against the milky white pearls at his throat. He raised a gloved hand and felt the stubble on Louis’ jaw through the lace. Louis leaned into his touch, waiting patiently as Harry closed the gap between them.
Kissing Louis was like a revelation. Harry felt shaky and breathless from the soft touch of his lips, suddenly overwhelmed with all of the feelings he’d searched for his whole life. He understood now what poets tried so hard to put into words, why lovers sealed letters with kiss stains. The delicate heat of Louis’ mouth and the gentle strength of his hands felt like home.
In all of his explorations of that old wooden trunk he’d never stopped to imagine how it would feel to share it with someone else. The silk had never felt as soft as when Louis’ hands were touching him through it and Harry had never felt as beautiful as when Louis was looking at him. He gasped, letting himself fall into the pleasure of Louis’ touch.
Louis kissed down Harry’s chest, mouthing over the necklace to feel the contrast of the cool pearls against Harry’s warm skin. Harry whined lightly in his throat, feeling Louis’ tongue tease his skin around the pearls. His hips jumped, pressing his growing erection against Louis’ belly, and Louis looked up at him with a mischievous grin. He pushed Harry back towards the bed and guided him down onto the pile of clothes, his veil splayed around him on every side. He laid drowning in frothy white lace, the red of his lips and cheeks a stark contrast to the milky white all around him. Louis’ heart leapt in his chest.
“f*ck,” he muttered under his breath, lurching forward to press a searing kiss against Harry’s mouth before falling to his knees at the edge of the bed. He nestled himself between Harry’s knees and slid his hands up under the slip, bunching it around Harry’s thighs. “Can I?”
Harry nodded, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth.
Louis pushed the fabric up further, greeting each new inch of Harry’s skin with his lips. The skirt pooled around Harry’s hips and Louis groaned at the sight of his co*ck, hard and weeping just for him. He ghosted his fingers over the hot velvety skin and Harry gasped. Louis paused, his eyes flicking up to Harry’s face.
“I’ve never...” Harry began, blushing.
“That’s alright,” Louis told him, rubbing soothing circles against Harry’s hip with his thumb. “Do you want me to?”
“Please,” Harry nodded.
Louis leaned forward and pressed his lips to the tip of Harry’s co*ck, feeling his muscles jolt at the sensation. He wrapped his hands around Harry’s thighs and kneaded at the flesh as he took him into his mouth, making Harry melt into the bed. He laved over him with his tongue, coaxing gasps and moans from Harry’s throat. Harry’s hands searched for something to grasp, his fingers tangling in lace and silk and tulle as he ground his head back against the pile of dresses. Louis grinned as much as he could with his lips stretched around Harry’s co*ck and sucked him in further. He bobbed his head, following the twitches of Harry’s hips and relaxing his throat to allow for the clumsy thrusts.
“Louis, I can’t,” Harry choked, his knuckles white beneath the lace of his gloves. He’d never been touched like this and the tight wet heat of Louis’ mouth was almost too much to bear. “I’m gonna - !”
“Go ahead, Darlin’,” Louis told him, pulling off and replacing his mouth with his hand. “I’ve got you.”
He fit his mouth back over the head of Harry’s co*ck, tonguing at the slit with his hand at the base. It wasn’t long before Harry’s back was arching off of the bed, crying out as his org*sm washed over him. He was left dizzy and boneless in the pool of lace, like Aphrodite born from her bed of sea foam. Louis pulled off with one last swipe of his tongue and Harry’s hips gave a final aborted twitch.
Louis’ flies were already undone so it was easy to slip his hand inside his shorts and wrap it around himself as he kneed up onto the bed. He leaned forward for a kiss and Harry let his mouth go slack, opening easily to Louis. He watched through heavily lidded eyes at the movement beneath Louis’ shorts, the defined muscles of his forearm tensing with each pull. Harry wanted a closer look but before he could ask Louis went taut, moaning softly as he spilled into his hand.
He collapsed beside Harry, pressing his lips to Harry’s shoulder and letting his eyes drop shut while he caught his breath. His arm was slack, his hand still tucked under his waistband, and Harry reached for it curiously. Louis opened one eye to watch as Harry took Louis’ hand in his own and lifted it to his mouth. He darted out his tongue to taste the pearly mess spread across Louis’ palm.
Louis chuckled at the look on Harry’s face.
“It’s an acquired taste,” he told him, reaching for the cloth on the washstand and cleaning himself up.
They laid together in the nest of moth-eaten old clothes until their heart beats and breathing slowed, the chill of the night far away from their warm cocoon.
Everything felt so easy with Louis. Harry started to worry sometimes that he’d wake up one morning back in his parents’ house and that the farm would be nothing but a too-good dream, the kind that left a bittersweet ache in his chest. But he kept waking up in his little shed and Louis kept giving him that same lazy smile and they kept touching.
Harry hadn’t realized how little he’d been touched before Louis.
It felt obvious then, when there was always a warm hand on his hip or a set of nimble fingers twined in his hair. It seemed new to Louis, too, who sometimes sighed when Harry linked their hands together or pressed up against his back. They were always touching and kissing, palming each other in the corners of the barn. They fell into it naturally.
“I’ve got to trim my hair later,” Louis said one morning over breakfast. His ankle was hooked around Harry’s beneath the table. “It’s getting too long.”
“Oh?” Harry asked, looking up from his coffee to assess the apparent growth. It didn’t seem all that long to him but Louis liked to keep his appearance neat and tidy. Harry had always thought that farmers would be rugged and grimy and unshaven, too focused on their animals to care much for veneer, but Louis proved him wrong. He kept his hair cropped short on the sides, likely a habit from his army days, and his fingernails were always scrubbed clean and pink. When he did let his beard grow longer than stubble it was always well groomed and methodically trimmed. Even his clothes, though sensible, were always smart.
“Would you like to help me? There’s no use puttering around with the mirror trying to reach the back of my head when there’s an extra hand around.”
“I’ve never cut someone’s hair before,” Harry told him. “Are you sure you want me to? I might mess it up.”
“It’s easy,” Louis assured him. “I’ll show you what to do.”
Louis drug a stool out into the shade behind the barn, explaining that the birds could use the scraps of his hair for their nests. He had Harry hold up a small mirror for him while he demonstrated on the front of his hair.
“Use the comb to hold the hair, see, and then just trim a bit off the ends.”
Harry nodded, watching raptly.
When Louis finished with the front he handed the tools off to Harry who stepped up apprehensively behind him. The sun hadn’t risen so long ago and the cool morning light turned Louis’ bare back to buttermilk. Harry pulled the black plastic comb through Louis’ hair, watching his eyelashes flutter shut. He scooped up a bit of his soft whiskey colored hair, trying his best to copy what he’d seen Louis do.
His first snip took off less than a centimeter of hair but he still tensed as the scissors snapped shut. He continued carefully through Louis’ hair, combing each strand and trying to match the length of the one before it, and started to grow more confident. When his knuckle brushed over the shell of Louis’ ear he saw goosebumps rise across his neck. Harry leaned down to blow away some of the brown hairs that had fallen all across Louis’ shoulders and pressed his lips to the nape of his neck. Louis shivered lightly and Harry smiled. He went back to snipping, doing his best to shield the delicate skin of Louis’ ears from the scissors.
His smile fell when he stepped back and noticed a distinct lopsidedness to Louis’ hair. He made a face and combed through it again, trying to even out the length with more snips.
“Hmm,” he grumbled after a moment, frowning deeply.
Louis opened one eye and peered back at him over his shoulder.
“I might have messed up,” Harry admitted reluctantly.
Louis brought his hand to the back of his head curiously.
“Well there’s still hair,” he mused, “so you can’t have done too bad.”
“It’s choppy,” Harry frowned. “It got uneven so I tried to fix it but I think I made it worse. sh*t.”
“That’s alright,” Louis told him, moving on the stool until he was facing Harry. He reached out and settled his hands on Harry’s hips, pulling him in until their knees knocked together. “You can practice. I think you did good for your first time.”
“You haven’t seen it yet,” Harry warned him.
“I’ve still got both of my ears and most of my hair,” Louis grinned. “I’ll count that as a success.”
“It looks bad though,” Harry told him, reaching around Louis’ head to card his fingers through the uneven strands. “You always look so nice.”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Louis told him, an easy smile on his face. “Do you want me to do yours?”
Harry looked down to the mess of hairs littered across Louis’ shoulders and chest.
He needed a haircut, he knew he did. He’d needed one when he ran away, when his hair was too close to his ears to be proper for a wedding service. Now it was getting closer to his chin, even the shorter sides starting to curl for the first time that he could remember.
“I guess I should,” Harry said reluctantly. He lifted his hand and tugged at a clump of curls behind his ear. “It’s too long. I should have had it cut months ago.”
Louis was watching him with a calculating sort of look in his eyes.
“You don’t have to,” he said gently, squeezing Harry’s hips. “If you don’t want to.”
“I should,” Harry said again, knowing his voice sounded weak.
Louis pulled him closer, parting his knees so that he could loop his arms around Harry’s middle.
“You could let it grow if you want to,” he said, resting his chin on Harry’s chest and looking up at him. “I think it’d suit you.”
“Yeah?”
Louis nodded.
“I think you’d look bona,” Louis smiled. He reached up to tuck some stray hair behind Harry’s ear. “Like some sort of prince. The kind in those movies with the tights and the pantaloons.”
Harry blushed and Louis brought his arms back around his middle, tightening his hold on him.
“I can cut it for you if you want me to,” Louis told him, “but for what it’s worth I like how it is now. And besides, it’s not like the cows care what your hair looks like.”
“I don’t know about that,” Harry said, cracking a smile as he settled his hands on Louis’ prickly shoulders. “Some of them like to gossip. I’ve heard them spreading rumors about us.”
“That’s all my fault,” Louis grinned. “I shouldn’t kiss you in front of them as much as I do, it’s awfully unprofessional. But you’re hard to resist.”
Ever since the night in the shed Louis had fallen easily to the temptations of Harry’s anatomy, their kisses often turning heated and his hands moving deftly to Harry’s trousers. He was eager to drop to his knees and suck Harry off beside the breakfast table, in the corner of the barn or, on one occasion, in the middle of the pasture. Harry had protested at first, afraid of being so exposed out in the open, but Louis had assured him that the rolling hills and the border of trees protected them from sight.
Harry was grateful for it now as Louis pulled him down to straddle his knee and sealed their lips in a playful kiss. It turned hungry fast, the legs of the stool sinking into the dirt with Harry’s added weight. Louis’ hands moved to the straps of Harry’s dungarees, easily undoing the tabs and letting the bib fall from his chest to expose one of Louis’ own shirts. He reached for the buttons on Harry’s hips but Harry caught his hands, stopping him.
Louis looked quizzically up at him.
“Umm,” Harry began, his cheeks pinking. “Could I...?”
He bit his lip, glancing down at where their groins pressed together.
Louis was still frowning, one brow quirked in confusion.
“What you do,” Harry said, pressing his knuckles against Louis’ belly just above his belt. “With your mouth. I want to try.”
“You want to suck me off?” Louis asked, his eyes widening.
Harry nodded.
“Wanna make you feel good.”
Until that point it had always been Louis with his mouth on Harry, Louis with his hand down Harry’s trousers. Harry had only gotten a few glimpses of Louis’ naked co*ck and he was desperate for a closer look.
“Okay,” Louis said, a bit hesitant. “If you want to. Of course.”
Harry wasted no time sliding down to the grass and Louis stood up from the stool, close enough to the barn that he could lean his shoulder against the wall if he wanted to. He seemed unsure for a moment of where to put his hands but he settled with one pressed against the barn and the other on Harry’s shoulder. Harry’s fingers were already making quick work of his belt, pulling the soft leather through the buckle and thumbing open each copper button of Louis’ Levi’s.
Louis was half hard by the time Harry got his jeans and his shorts bunched around his thighs.
“You’re so pretty,” Harry breathed, almost in awe as he stared at Louis’ co*ck. Louis laughed, his posture relaxing, and Harry looked up at him defensively. “You are.”
“Thank you, Darlin’,” Louis smiled, pressing an appreciative thumb against Harry’s cheek. Harry brought his attention back to the task at hand, suddenly unsure as he sized Louis up. “You can touch me,” Louis told him, hoping to put him at ease. Instantly Harry’s hands uncurled from the fists by his sides and wrapped around Louis’ thighs, digging into the muscle. “There you go,” he said, carding his fingers through Harry’s hair.
Harry ducked his head forward to press his lips to the base of Louis’ co*ck, just on the side of the shaft, before looking up for approval. Louis hummed and guided his head back for another kiss, Harry letting his mouth fall open this time. He continued to explore with small kitten licks and sucks and Louis let him, telling him with the sounds in his throat what felt best. By the time Harry took him fully into his mouth his hands had gravitated up to Louis’ ass, kneading at the flesh. Louis groaned at the feeling of Harry’s strong fingers coupled with the heat of his mouth and reached down for one of Harry’s wrists.
Harry didn’t seem to notice at first, not until his fingers were in Louis’ mouth. He jumped at the feeling of Louis’ tongue brushing over his sensitive fingertips and moaned when Louis began to suck. He redoubled his efforts on Louis’ co*ck, his mouth clumsy and eager, as saliva pooled in the palm of his hand.
Harry was confused when Louis guided his hand back down but then his fingers met their mark and he jolted forward in surprise, coughing around his gag reflex as he pulled back off. Louis paused, petting over Harry’s hair with his free hand and smiling down at him while he caught his breath, but then Harry was back on him, sucking greedily as Louis guided his fingers to circle his own hole. He directed him wordlessly, using his own fingers as an example.
“You’re doing so well,” Louis told him, pushing sweaty curls from Harry’s forehead. He easily steered the press of Harry’s fingers past his opening. “So good for me.”
Harry quickly got caught in the feeling of Louis’ fluttering muscles and silky smooth skin and forgot about his main task, his mouth falling slack and motionless around Louis’ co*ck. Louis smiled breathlessly down at him and took it in stride, f*cking forward gently into the soft wet heat of Harry’s mouth.
Harry moaned, loud and wantonly, overwhelmed by the barrage of sensations, by the feeling of being so utterly used, and Louis echoed the sound.
Soon Louis’ low groans turned higher and needier and the canting of his hips got sharper, his fingers fisting in Harry’s hair as his other hand pushed Harry’s fingers deeper. Harry’s free hand dropped to his lap, pressing down hard against his denim-clad erection as spit dripped down his chin and Louis’ co*ck dragged over his tongue.
Louis’ grip on Harry’s hair tightened further and he tried to pull him off, warning him of what was to come, but Harry ignored him. He pushed back against Louis’ hand and tightened the suction of his mouth. Louis’ whole body tensed as he came, his muscles clenching tight around Harry’s fingers. Harry took what he could of his release, most of it dribbling out over his chin and chest, and he coughed wetly as he pulled away.
Louis slumped against the barn, letting Harry’s spit-slick hand fall from his grasp. Harry fell into a heap in the grass, looking dazed.
“Y’alright?” Louis asked, collapsing down beside him as soon as his jeans were pulled back up.
Harry hummed lightly, his cheeks stained as red as beet juice. His eyes were glazed over and if Louis didn’t know better he’d think their positions had been switched. Louis grabbed the t-shirt he’d discarded before his hair cut and did his best to wipe the mess from Harry’s face and neck.
“Thank you,” Louis said, settling in at his side. He pressed a soft kiss to Harry’s heated cheek. “No one’s ever asked to do that before.”
“Really?” Harry asked, his indignant frown a bit delayed.
“Yeah.” Louis pressed his knuckles against Harry’s in the grass. “It’s usually me offering.”
Harry linked their fingers together, still sticky with spit, and smiled.
“Everyone else has been missing out.”
“Yeah?” Louis laughed, boneless.
“Yeah,” Harry grinned.
Louis rolled onto his side and tucked his fingers into Harry’s waistband.
“Let me take care of you,” he said, reaching for the buttons of his dungarees, but once again Harry stopped him.
“I already...” Harry gestured to the wet patch in the denim sheepishly and Louis grinned.
They rested for a few long peaceful moments, letting their hearts slow beneath the cool winter sun, until a loud moo rumbled from nearby.
“C’mon,” Louis said, rolling up off of the grass. “I think they’ve gotten enough to fuel their gossiping for the day.”
Harry woke on the morning of his birthday to a light knock on the door of the shed.
“Happy Birthday,” Louis said softly, smiling as he shouldered through the door.
Harry pushed himself up onto his elbows, rubbing his eyes as Louis came to sit on the edge of his bed. He held a tin tray piled with waffles which had goopy little legs from where the batter had dripped out of the iron and a dollop of whipped cream that was quickly thinning out from the steam. There was also a small porcelain creamer cup carrying maple syrup and a tall glass of orange juice. Harry sat up against the iron headboard and tucked his blankets around his waist.
“Thanks,” he smiled, his voice still rough from sleep.
Harry shifted closer to the wall so that Louis could fit in beside him and dug into the small feast. Louis pillowed his head on Harry’s shoulder, occasionally reaching for a waffle of his own which he dunked into the syrup.
“I should get out to the barn,” Harry said when the tray was empty but for a few crumbs and a sticky amber trail of syrup drips, his voice lacking enthusiasm. He reached for the cloth napkin on Louis’ side of the tray but Louis caught his hand and stopped him.
“No you don’t,” Louis told him, keeping him caged against the wall with a smile. “I already took care of the morning chores. Birthdays are for resting.”
He used his grip on Harry’s wrist to lift Harry’s hand to his mouth, darting out his tongue to lick over the drying syrup on Harry’s fingertips. Harry’s own mouth went slack and he watched as Louis moved to swipe his tongue over the pad of his thumb.
“Just for resting?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
Louis grinned and pressed his lips to the center of Harry’s palm.
“Maybe not just for resting.” He lifted the tray from their laps and set it beside the bed before rolling up onto Harry’s chest. Harry melted into the sheets like the whipped cream had melted into the waffles, soft and sweet as he waited for Louis’ mouth. Waited to be eaten up. “What do you want, Darlin’? I’ll give you anything.”
“Anything,” Harry told him, arching his neck and looking up at him through heavily lidded eyes. “Your hands. Your mouth. I want anything.”
“And I told you you could have it.” Louis smiled before sealing his lips to the underside of Harry’s jaw. He left a trail of languid, lingering kisses as he inched further beneath the quilt and when he brought his hands up under the hem of Harry’s nightshirt Harry let out a shaky breath that made his chest jump against Louis’ lips.
It was a long while later when Louis finally released Harry from the bed, leaning lazily against the pillows as he watched the other man move around the room to get dressed. He sat up though when Harry picked up the dress he’d discarded the night before and reached for the overalls crumpled up beneath it.
“You don’t have to - ” Louis started and Harry turned to watch him struggle as he found his words. “I mean, if you want. You can wear whatever you want. You don’t have to work today so you don’t have to wear your work clothes. You could wear one of your dresses. If you want.”
Harry still got a giddy little thrill up his spine whenever Louis called them that.
Harry’s dresses.
“Which one?” Harry asked, setting the dungarees back on the chair.
Louis blinked, his brow furrowed.
“Any of them,” he said. “Whatever you want. It’s up to you.”
“But which one do you like?” Harry asked. He stepped towards the middle of the room and Louis finally caught up to what Harry was asking for.
“You want me to pick?”
Harry nodded, shifting on his feet and playing with his fingers as Louis stood from the bed.
There was no wardrobe in the little shed so the clothes from the trunk hadn’t been hung up but they were no longer hidden away. The lid of the trunk was left open with clothes scattered all around it, blouses hanging off the sides and dresses hooked on stray nails left on the wall. Louis leaned over the trunk and glanced back to see Harry still patiently watching him. He looked through the small collection, pinching bits of fabric between his fingers before holding up his selection.
“Here,” he said. “This one brings out your eyes.”
Harry smiled.
It was a simple house dress, comfortable and boxy with a pair of big square pockets at the front and a sash at the waist that tied in the back to give it some shape. It was made of a soft and well worn cream cotton and patterned with tiny flowers in shades of green and pink. When Harry reached for it Louis just stepped closer and started bunching up the sides from the opening. Harry pulled off his sleep shirt and let Louis lift the dress over his head, guiding his arms through the holes and leaning down to settle the skirt over his knees. Louis turned him around gently and did up the row of flat pearly buttons on the back, smoothing his palms down Harry’s ribs before taking hold of the ties and linking them in a neat bow. When he finished he ducked his head to press his lips against Harry’s shoulder where the square neckline left his skin exposed. Harry swayed lightly against Louis’ chest.
“I’ll need a sweater, too,” Harry said, his voice rough. “It’s cold today.”
“Of course,” Louis agreed, a smile clear in his voice. He gave Harry’s hips a quick squeeze before stepping away. Harry immediately missed the heat of Louis’ body against his back and turned to watch over his shoulder as Louis picked through the pile of sweaters in the second drawer of his dresser. He grabbed one, along with a thick pair of socks from the top drawer, and turned back to Harry.
Harry lifted his arms again and Louis pulled the brown wool sweater over his head. It was an old one that belonged to Louis, the hem stretched out so it hung loose below Harry’s hips. Harry laughed when the neck got caught on his forehead and Louis laughed along with him as he tugged it gently over Harry’s nose. Louis kissed him once he was free, just a quick peck before he dropped to his knees with the socks. Harry placed his hand on Louis’ shoulder for stability as he lifted each foot so Louis could roll the socks up over his calves. Then Louis reached for Harry’s muddy work boots beside the bed and helped Harry guide each foot inside before knotting the laces up in bows. When each one was done up nice and tight he pushed the hem of Harry’s dress up just far enough that he could duck down and press his lips to Harry’s left kneecap.
“There,” Louis said softly, letting the skirt fall back down. “All done.”
As much as Louis tried to shoo him away Harry spent the last of the morning following him around the farm and watching him do both of their work for the day. He perched on fence posts and barrels and hay bales and made a game of seeing how quickly he could make Louis drop everything he was doing to kiss him. His record was four seconds.
After lunch he gave into Louis’ insistence that he relax and went to the little bookshelf in Louis’ sitting room. He’d noticed it back when he was sleeping on the lumpy couch but he’d never looked closely at the books. Louis had all kinds of books, classics and modern novels and books of poetry and romance. Harry grabbed a book he’d never seen before, intrigued by the word ‘angel’ in the title, and took it out to the porch to read. It was a nice day out, the chill in the air softened by the warmth of the sun. He could see Louis in the distance with the cows and he watched him for a moment before opening the book.
The world felt peaceful as he read. The cool breeze ruffled the pages of the book and made the light hairs on his bare legs stand on end but when he stretched his legs out from under the shade of the porch the sunlight fell on his skin like warm bathwater and he sighed, turning his page. He’d read nearly a quarter of the book when the soft mewling started up and it took a few page turns before he noticed it. With the low bellows of the cows in the feild and the far off babbling of the creek and the birdsong overhead the quiet mews were easily drowned out. When Harry did notice them he frowned, sitting up straight and co*cking his head to confirm what he’d heard.
He waited a moment and heard another mew.
He set the book down and stepped off of the porch, listening carefully and searching around as he followed the sound. When he saw something white through the leaves of a hydrangea plant against the side of the house he knelt down in the dirt and leaned forward on his hands to see beneath the foliage. His eyes went wide when he found three tiny kittens, all mewling sadly and wobbling on unsteady feet.
Harry scrambled back up and ran towards the pasture, searching for Louis.
“Louis!” he called when he couldn’t find him, running back towards the barn. “Louis!”
“What?” Louis asked, looking panicked as he stumbled out of the barn with a hay hook in his hand. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
Harry was panting from running and had to suck in a deep breath before he could answer.
“Kittens!” he gasped, his body thrumming with excited energy. “I found kittens! We need to help them!”
Louis sagged as if in relief.
“Where are they?”
“By the house in a bush,” Harry explained. “We need to bring them inside, they’re probably cold. They must be hungry too, do you know what kittens eat? They always drink milk in cartoons. Do we have milk? This is a dairy farm, of course we’ve got milk. We’ve got milk, don’t we?”
“Harry, calm down,” Louis chuckled softly. “I’m sure they’ll be fine. They’ve probably got a mother taking care of them.”
“But what if they don’t?” Harry asked, frowning. “What if she abandoned them? They were all crying when I found them and their fur was all matted and dirty. They’re starved half to death! They need a mother - they need me!”
“Alright, Darlin’,” Louis said, smiling fondly at Harry’s impassioned speech. “Let’s just be certain they don’t have a mother before you go adopting them all, okay? Why don’t you get a can of tuna from the kitchen and set it out by their bush - if it hasn’t been touched in a few hours you can have full custody of them.”
Harry crushed his mouth against Louis’ in a thankful kiss and rushed to follow his instructions. He set up the tuna and drug one of the chairs from the kitchen table outside to where he could keep an eye on the hydrangea bush while he read without being so close as to scare away any other cats. Harry had never had a cat before - his mother was allergic to animal fur so he and Gemma had never been allowed a pet. Harry had always wanted a cat though and had spent nearly a full year carrying around a little stuffed cat with button eyes when he was six years old, caring for it as if it was real.
When Louis came back to the house late in the afternoon he found Harry with his book abandoned in his lap, staring fixedly at the rustling hydrangea bush.
“No sign of Mama then?”
Harry jumped and turned in his seat. Louis was carrying a big wicker basket in front of him.
“No,” Harry shook his head. “I don’t think she’s coming back.”
“You think you’re ready for motherhood then?” Louis asked, a smirk playing at his lips.
“Yes!” Harry nodded eagerly.
“Then we’d better get them inside,” Louis said and Harry grinned.
Louis followed Harry to the bush and they both knelt down beside it. Louis set down the basket and Harry saw that he’d tossed a few raggedy old towels in it along with a bottle topped with a long rubber nipple.
“It’s for lambs,” Louis explained when he saw Harry looking. “It’ll be too big for kittens but it’s better than nothing. We can check in the feed store tomorrow for something smaller.”
He shuffled down on his belly and reached through the big hydrangea leaves.
“C’m‘ere, Kitty,” he said before dragging out a fuzzy spotted kitten by the scruff of its neck. He offered it up to Harry who immediately cupped his hands around it and lifted it up, cooing as it blinked bleary blue eyes at him. He set the kitten in the basket when Louis held out another to him, followed by another. “Let’s get them cleaned up,” Louis said, sitting back on his heels and clapping the dirt from his hands.
Louis put a pot of water on the stove to warm up while he started cooking dinner and Harry sat with the basket of kittens on the kitchen table. Louis had explained to him that kittens were delicate and that they needed to be kept warm. Harry was fully prepared to swaddle each kitten and brood over them like a mother hen to keep them warm. The first kitten had white fur with patches of gray while the second was gray with darker stripes in its fur and white socks on its feet. The third was all white, though you could hardly tell with the mess of dust and dirt that was matted in its fur.
“Here,” Louis said once the chicken and vegetables were all coated with oil and were laid out in their pans. He took the pot of warm water to the sink and grabbed an old rag. “Bring them over.”
Louis picked up the gray kitten and cupped it in his hand before dipping the cloth in the water and rubbing it gently over the dirt caked in its fur and the mess around its tail. He showed Harry what to do, warning him not to get the kittens’ faces wet, before wringing out the cloth and handing it over so Harry could clean the other kittens while he wrapped the gray one up in a warm blanket.
They ate their dinner on the floor in front of the fireplace with a basket of warm sleeping kittens set in front of them.
“How about Patches for him?” Harry asked, pointing to the spotted kitten. Louis nodded easily. He’d checked beneath their tails after they fed them and told Harry each of their sexes. “Tiger,” he said, petting over the striped kitten’s head and making his ears twitch, “and Snowbell.”
Harry already had a special fondness for the white kitten, the only girl in the bunch, who had purred when Harry gave her her milk and tried to nurse on his finger when it was gone.
When Louis took their empty plates back to the kitchen he returned with a single store-bought cupcake on a little dish, a lit candle stuck in the icing.
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you,” he sang under his breath, his voice raspy and as sweet as the cupcake in his hand. “Happy birthday dear Harry, happy birthday to you.”
He held the dish out to Harry who closed his eyes and grinned as he wished to always stay right there. He blew out the candle and Louis gave a little cheer, setting the dish in Harry’s lap. Harry eagerly peeled the paper away and took a bite, letting the sugar coat his tongue as he chewed.
“Don’t you have one?” he asked around the cake.
“You’re sweet enough for me,” Louis replied, leaning in to kiss his cheek.
Harry fixed him with a look and held out the cake until Louis gave in and took a bite of his own. As they passed the little cake back and forth Harry silently vowed to practice his baking so that Louis’ next birthday cake might actually be edible. Otherwise he'd have to ask Louis to show him where the bakery was in town.
“You want your present then?” Louis asked.
“Present?” Harry asked, licking a bit of frosting from his thumb.
“Mean, unless you don’t want it,” Louis teased, shrugging flippantly. “You’ve already got your kittens. I’m sure those are enough of a gift.”
“What is it?” Harry asked, dragging himself closer. “Can I see?”
“I guess I’ll be generous,” Louis grinned. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small oblong box wrapped in a bit of newspaper and tied with twine. “Here.”
Harry grabbed it eagerly and pulled it close.
“It’s okay if you don’t want it,” he said, suddenly turning nervous as Harry pulled off the twine. “I just- I thought you might like it.”
Harry grew curious as he tore away the wrapping and pulled open one of the tabs on the side of the box. He tilted it forward and let the thing inside slide out onto his palm.
“Oh.”
He knew what sort of tube it was, could recognize the shiny gold cylinder, but he still lifted off the cap just to be sure.
“You don’t have to use it if you don’t want to,” Louis told him while Harry twisted up the tube experimentally.
The lipstick was a glossy red, exactly the color of the roses Harry’s mother grew proudly in their front yard.
“Can you put it on me?”
Louis stopped his rambling and nodded. Harry passed the tube back to Louis and tilted his chin forward in invitation. Louis took hold of his chin, just as he did when he was shaving him, and pressed the corner of the lipstick to Harry’s mouth. He leaned close, squinting in concentration, and carefully traced the shape of Harry’s lips.
“How’s it look?” Harry asked when he pulled away. He pressed his lips between his teeth and felt the waxy slide of the lipstick when he rubbed them together.
“Beautiful,” Louis smiled. “The color suits you.”
He used the edge of his thumb to clean up the corner of Harry’s mouth where the color had gone outside the lines and when he lowered his hand there was a tiny smear of rose red beside his thumb nail. The sight sent a little thrill through Harry, suddenly filling his mind with images of Louis covered in streaks of his lipstick, rose red stained across his mouth and his neck and his chest and his legs, each finger painted in rings of lipstick. His heart sent a deep pulse through his body that settled low in his stomach.
“Can I...” he shifted closer, until their thighs were pressed together and he could taste the sugar on Louis’ breath. Louis just watched him, curious and open. Harry pressed his fingers to Louis’ chin, the way Louis had done so many times to him, and pressed his lips to Louis’ cheek. When he pulled back there was a perfect kiss stamped into Louis’ skin, a clean outline of Harry’s cupid’s bow and his pursed bottom lip.
“Did it leave a mark?” Louis asked, his eyes shining in the flickering light of the fire.
“Yeah,” Harry nodded.
He ducked down to press another kiss below the first, right on the hinge of Louis’ jaw. The sight of his lips on Louis’ cheek lit something possessive that had been lying dormant in Harry and suddenly he needed to know how many kisses could come from one coat of lipstick. He tightened his hold on Louis’ chin and shifted up onto his knees, crowding over Louis and pressing more kisses over his temple and his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. Louis just closed his eyes and let him do it, smiling as Harry covered his face in a mess of kiss marks.
The lipstick lost its power fast but as soon as he pulled back Louis had the tube waiting to reapply. He swiped it over Harry’s lips, ignoring the smears of red across his chin, before applying a messy streak to his own lips.
“Can’t let you have all the fun,” he murmured in explanation before smacking his lips against Harry’s cheek. Harry grinned, laughing breathlessly as he reached for the buttons of Louis’ shirt. He closed his eyes when Louis pressed an open mouthed kiss to his left eye, leaving a ring of red around it, and tore Louis’ shirt from his shoulders. He smeared lipstick across Louis’ collarbones, tasting the salt of his sweat when he licked over his slick lips.
Louis fisted his hands in Harry’s sweater and pulled it over his head, tossing it somewhere behind him, and made quick work of the buttons at Harry’s back. Once it was loose he pulled the collar of the dress down and replaced it with his mouth, painting a necklace of kiss marks around Harry’s neck. He pulled the dress down further until Harry could pull his arms free of the sleeves and left it pooling around his waist. He held Harry steady by the hips and leaned down, stamping a kiss into the hollow at the base of his breastbone. The breath he blew out through his nose ghosted over Harry’s skin and made his nipples peek as goosebumps rose on his forearms.
Louis opened his mouth and sealed his lips to the center of Harry’s chest in a ring before blowing out a stream of hot air in a loud putter. Harry laughed at the sound and the tickling feeling even as he rocked his hard co*ck forward against Louis’ hip. Louis beamed and guided Harry down to straddle his thigh, encouraging the needy cants of his hips. He brought his hands down to Harry’s thighs where the skirt of the dress was rucked up and wrinkled. He kneaded at the soft flesh, feeling Harry’s muscles tense and jump under his touch, and slid his hands up to cup Harry’s ass and guide his movements.
They rutted together beside the fire, leaving trails of fading kiss marks anywhere their lips could find purchase. Harry wound his fingers through Louis’ hair, still cropped unevenly across the back of his head, and gasped as Louis sucked a mark at the base of his throat. His hips stuttered as he came, moaning with his mouth hanging open and his lips smearing the last of his lipstick across Louis’ brow bone. He slumped forward against Louis’ shoulder and panted. He tucked his fingers into Louis’ waistband, still shuddering through the aftershocks.
“Meow.”
Harry looked up to find Snowbell awake and tumbling out of the basket beside the fire, blinking up at them with big green eyes.
“I think she’s hungry,” Louis said, his eyes crinkling.
“But I was gonna - !” Harry frowned, tugging at Louis’ waistband where the fabric was still pulled taut.
“Motherhood comes with sacrifices,” Louis teased, bringing Harry’s hand up to his mouth and pressing a red-speckled kiss across his knuckles.
He scooped Snowbell up and swept back towards the kitchen, leaving Harry pouting on the floor.
“C’mon,” he smirked from the doorway. “Once she’s back asleep you’ve got a lot of lipstick to clean off me.”
Louis laughed as Harry scrambled to his feet.
Harry dropped his milking stool when he opened Ruthie’s stall six days after his birthday and a small spindly calf stumbled out from behind her.
“Louis!” he shrieked, barrelling noisily into the house. “Louis!” He ran past the basket of kittens with curiously twitching ears in the living room and rattled the frames hanging in the hallway as he blundered towards the bedroom. “Louis!”
Harry tore through the door and Louis startled awake.
“Wuh’?” Louis croaked, blinking sleep from his eyes as Harry pounced onto the bed and grabbed at his hand. “What’s goin’ on?”
“There’s a baby!” Harry cried, half hysteric as he yanked Louis’ arm nearly out of the socket. “You’ve got to come quick!”
“One of the cows?” Louis asked, his eyes widening. “At the barn?”
“Yes!” Harry nodded emphatically, his boots slipping against the floorboards as he tried to drag Louis’ dead weight from the bed. “Ruthie had her baby!”
“Did it look alright?” Louis asked. “It was standing? Breathing?”
Harry nodded again, looking as if his head was about to be thrown off his shoulders.
“Good,” Louis smiled, breathing out a sigh. “Then I’ve got time to put on some clothes.”
Harry’s grip slackened enough that Louis could pull free and start his search for a pair of shorts and Harry huffed out a breath.
“There’s an infant out there,” Harry frowned, pointedly ignoring Louis’ nakedness as Louis rooted around in a pile of clothes beside his dresser. “It could be dying. Can’t you go faster?”
“Would you rather I go running across the farm buck naked?” Louis asked, amusem*nt clear in his voice as he stepped into a pair of drawers.
“I’d never object,” Harry told him, forgetting his urgency for a moment. Louis grinned, seeming to be caught up in ideas for the sorts of activities one might invent while naked in a field but Harry grabbed the dungarees hanging off a bedpost and threw them at him, barking, “C’mon! There’s a baby cow who might need your help!”
Together they walked back out to the barn, Harry a few impatient steps ahead of Louis, and returned to Ruthie’s stall where the little calf was nosing at her udders.
“Oh,” Harry breathed, hanging on the stall door. “Isn’t he beautiful? Is he a he?”
“Only one way to find out,” Louis said, petting a steadying hand down Ruthie’s flank as he knelt down beside the calf. Ruthie was the sort of cow Harry had always seen in storybooks, dappled in black and white with big shiny round eyes framed with thick long lashes. Her calf was just as pretty from what he could see when Louis coaxed it out from under her and began his examination. “You’re right,” he said after lifting the calf’s tail. “He’s a boy.”
“Is he alright?” Harry asked, still nervous.
“He’s perfect,” Louis smiled, running his hand down the calf’s spine. “Come and see.”
Harry circled around Louis and came to sit on his heels in front of the little cow, cooing as soon as the calf turned to face him. The calf’s head was all black but there was a splotch of white fur on his forehead almost perfectly shaped like a heart.
“Look at him,” Harry murmured, rubbing his thumb over the patch of white. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”
“Cows are always comin’ out with all kinds of shapes on ‘em,” Louis told him, “but that’s the clearest one I’ve seen.”
“Did you hear that?” Harry said softly to the little cow, cupping his face in his hands. “Louis says you’re special.”
He ducked down and pecked a kiss to the center of the white heart and released the cow who had started to squirm.
“Will all of them be like that?” Harry asked Louis. “Over before we even know?”
“No,” Louis shook his head. “The others will have to be monitored better. Ruthie popped a little early but that’s fine. She’s been through calving season before so I knew she’d be fine. She’s never had any trouble in the past. Nellie though, we’ll have to keep a close eye on.” He looked over to the cow in question with a sad sort of smile. “She lost her first calf. I’m hoping we’ll have better luck with this one. She and Bessie should pop in the next few weeks. They were all bred at the same time last May.”
He gave the little calf one last pat and let him go back to his mother who had waited patiently through his examination.
“Let’s finish up the milking,” Louis suggested, offering Harry his hand, “and then we can give the little one a sponge bath to make sure he’s all clean.”
Harry named the little cow Valentino, remaining enamored with the heart on his forehead. He began to spend more and more time in the barn and out in the field, watching over the calf and introducing the kittens to life on a farm. He was often found leading Valentino with a rope lead, a kitten or two peeking out from the large pocket on the bib of his overalls. He’d often wondered what would happen if his parents were somehow to drive past the farm and spot him there in the field. He imagined their car screeching to a halt as they threw open the doors, ready to drag him back to the church and make him finish what he’d started. But now, caked in mud, his cheeks burnt a happy pink and his hair in wild untamed curls, dressed in a lady’s blouse and too-big dungarees, he doubted they’d ever be able to recognise him. Like Cinderella at the ball he’d pass unnoticed, a stranger in their eyes. He almost wished that his mother would see him, if only to see the look on her face when she realized that the dirty carefree man with a faint stain of lipstick around his mouth was none other than her polite, buttoned-up future-lawyer of a son.
Bessie went into labor on exactly the day Louis had predicted she would. He noticed her pacing around anxiously just before lunch and called Harry out to help him corral her into an empty pen outside in the shade. They ate sandwiches side-by-side, watching her kick her feet and huff as she waited impatiently for the finale of her pregnancy.
Around two o’clock there was a water bag hanging underneath her tail with a pair of little hooves visible through the sheer membrane. They cheered her on, offering words of encouragement as the calf’s head made its way out.
“Can it breathe like that?” Harry asked worriedly, staring as more of the calf’s body slid limply into view, all wrapped in a thin balloon-like sack.
“It’s alright,” Louis assured him. “It’s still getting oxygen through the umbilical cord for now.”
Harry jumped when Bessie suddenly kneeled down and rolled onto her side, making the calf kick its little legs at the movement.
“She’s just getting into a better position,” Louis explained before Harry could ask if she was alright.
They watched together as more and more of the calf emerged until finally, with one big push from Bessie, it fell onto the grass behind her. Louis rushed forward and tore the water bag with his fingers, pulling it back from the calf’s face. Bessie twisted around to lick at the fluid that was matting the calf’s coffee-brown fur while Louis wiped its cream colored mouth with his finger until it took in a deep shaky breath.
“It’s okay?” Harry asked, watching from over Louis’ shoulder.
“Yeah,” Louis smiled. “It looks a little underweight but that’s alright. We’ll get it fattened up in no time.”
Harry waited until most of the goo had been cleaned from the calf’s face before reaching out to pet the soft damp fur on its cheek. The calf blinked up at him with big round eyes and let out a low moo.
“It’s so small,” Harry said softly, watching as the calf made as if to stand before slumping back down into the grass and panting. “Even smaller than Valentino.”
“I’m guessing that’s why,” Louis said, surprise clear in his voice. He gestured to the fifth leg that was peeking out from under Bessie’s tail.
“Another?” Harry asked, amazed. “She’s having twins?”
“It appears so,” Louis said, pulling her tail aside to get a better look. “Twins are rare in cows, I didn’t think we’d have any.”
Bessie was still breathing hard, laying in an exhausted heap in the grass.
“I’ll give her some help with this one,” Louis said, feeling around for the unborn calf’s other foreleg. He grabbed both feet together and helped to guide it out until the head was free. After that it came out fast, with just a few last pushes from Bessie and one swift pull from Louis. He cleared its face just as he had with the other calf, who was by then standing on thin rickety legs beside Harry, and smiled in relief when it began to breathe.
The twin calves were nearly identical to their mother and to each other, all three of them a deep rich brown with pale snouts. The only difference Harry could find in them was the small tuft of white on the second calf’s forehead. He named that calf Artemis and her sister Apollo.
Eight days after Artemis and Apollo were born Louis noticed Nellie showing signs of labor. He seemed to be squaring himself up for it when he came in for dinner and told Harry.
“I’ll just eat quick,” he said, looking restless as he loaded his plate. “I want to be out in the barn until the calf is born, just in case.”
“I’ll come with you,” Harry offered. “In case you need help.”
“It might not be for a while still,” Louis explained, shoveling scalloped potatoes and chicken into his mouth. “You should get some sleep. I can always call for you if I need help. Really, I’ve done this dozens of times. I’ll be fine on my own.”
“But I want to,” Harry said. “I don’t mind staying up. I want to help.”
Louis looked down at his plate and shook his head.
“No,” he said and Harry blinked, confused. “No, just stay up here. Sleep. It’ll be fine.”
Harry pursed his lips.
“Will you wake me up when the calf is born?”
“Sure,” Louis said, shoveling another forkful of food into his mouth and chewing mechanically.
“I’ve been thinking of names,” Harry told him. “Delilah for a girl or Buford if it’s a boy. I’ve got back up names too in case there’s another set of twins. But maybe it’ll have a mark like Valentino and it’ll need a special name.”
“Yeah,” Louis said without looking up.
Harry watched with a frown as Louis quickly finished his dinner, set his plate in the sink and pressed a kiss to Harry’s cheek before running back out to the barn.
The sky had been full of dark clouds all day and the air was filled with anticipation as water welled up overhead, just waiting to drop. Weather like that always made Harry nervous. His stomach turned slightly as he watched Louis cross the field through the window, a little brown splotch in a sea of stormy purple sky and cold gray earth.
He tried to ignore the nagging at the back of his mind, dragging out the time it took to package the leftovers from dinner and wash up the dishes, but he couldn’t help but worry. He changed into a set of pajamas and tried to open a book to distract himself but still he couldn’t relax. Then, suddenly, the rain came.
Fat heavy drops rattled the little shed as wind whistled through the trees outside. Harry thought of Louis without a coat stuck out alone in the barn and distress curled through his chest. By the time the first crack of thunder rumbled through the sky he’d already pulled his barn jacket on over his pajamas and was lacing up his boots. He checked that the kittens were all sleeping soundly in their basket and tucked a blanket around them to keep them warm before wrapping a big quilt around his own shoulders. He scooped up the rest of the blankets from the bed and stepped out into the rain. He stumbled a bit under the weight of the thick quilts and the awkward angle he had to use to keep them bundled in his arms but he kept his eyes on the barn and the warm light glowing through the gaps in the wood.
Louis was pacing nervously outside Nellie’s stall and he stopped abruptly when Harry came through the door.
“How is she?” Harry asked, dropping the blankets onto a pile of clean straw and unwrapping the now-damp quilt from his shoulders.
“I don’t know,” Louis said, voice tight with nerves. “She started dilating hours ago. The calf should be coming out by now.”
“Give her some time,” Harry told him. He noticed a slight tremble in Louis’ hands and he frowned, unsure if it was from the cold or from his worrying. “Here,” he said, offering the quilt. “I’ll go make some coffee.”
“I thought I told you to go to sleep,” Louis said, smiling slightly.
Harry just took hold of Louis’ trembling hands and squeezed.
“I’ll be right back.”
Harry wasn’t sure how long they sat huddled together on the pile of straw, wrapped in thick quilts and holding hot mugs of coffee against their chests, both watching Nellie for any signs of change.
“It’s something about the waiting,” Louis said when the coffee no longer scalded Harry’s mouth with every sip. “It reminds me of back then.”
“The war?”
Louis nodded, clutching his mug tighter.
“There was a lot of waiting,” he explained. “Always waiting during air raids and attacks. Waiting to see who had survived. To see if I had.”
“You did,” Harry said, placing his hand on Louis’ arm.
“By dumb luck,” Louis said, smiling grimly.
“No,” Harry shook his head. “Because you were supposed to. You were supposed to survive and you were supposed to come here and you were supposed to drive by me on the road and you were supposed to stop. You had to. I don’t know if it was God or something else, but something meant for us to be here, where we are. Together.”
“Harry,” Louis whispered, his voice raw.
They both startled when Nellie let out a loud, strained moo and stomped her foot against the ground.
Louis jumped up, sloshing a bit of his coffee on the edge of the quilt, and rushed to investigate. Harry stood and watched with a slight grimace as Louis quickly coated his arm in Crisco and slid his hand inside the cow to feel around.
“There’s hooves,” he said, furrowing his brow and reaching further. “I can feel a nose,” he added after a moment. “It’s coming the right way at least.”
“You hear that Nellie?” Harry asked, coming around to pet over her neck encouragingly. “Your baby’s coming!”
She let out a huff and stomped her foot again and Harry jumped back to avoid being stepped on.
They sat back again and waited anxiously as Nellie paced her stall, her stomach heaving as she pushed her baby again and again.
“It’s going too long,” Louis said after a while, chewing on his lip. “The calf shouldn’t be in the birth canal for so long.”
It had been close to an hour of Nellie pushing and the calf’s legs had only just emerged.
“We’ll have to pull it out,” Louis decided. “It won’t survive much longer under that pressure.” He went to his tool kit and pulled out a set of calving chains. “I’ll need your help. Can you keep her steady for me?”
Harry took hold of the rope around her neck and laid his arm over her back while Louis expertly attached the chains above the fetlocks and hooves of the calf. Nellie gave a grumble but only shifted on her feet.
“I need you to hold her open for me, and keep her tail out of the way,” Louis instructed, showing Harry where to put his hands. He stood on one side of her with one arm looped over her back with her tail pinned by his forearm. He curled his fingers where Louis had told him to and tried his best to widen the opening, making a face at the sticky feeling of the slick swollen flesh. Louis planted his feet and used his weight to pull on the chains, his jaw clenched tight. Nellie startled at the sudden tugging but Harry kept her still. Louis found a rhythm, pulling hard on the chains for a moment before letting up so that Nellie could push again. It wasn’t long before a little snout slid out between Harry’s fingers, a small pink tongue poking out of its mouth. Louis frowned at that and redoubled his efforts.
“Come on, Mama,” he said through gritted teeth, his boots slipping on the ground. “You’re almost there. Just a little further.”
Nellie let out a low bellow and gave another big heave that pushed the calf’s head into the open. Harry grinned and gave her a congratulatory pat. From there it was easy for Louis to pull the calf out and it slid limply into the world with a gush of fluid that splashed over their boots. Louis was quick to kneel down and clear the calf’s airway.
“Come on,” he muttered, rubbing his hand over the little thing’s back, trying to force blood flow to its muscles. He waited uneasily for one leaden moment before its chest jumped and its lungs filled with its first breath. Louis gave a breathless sort of laugh and fell back into the straw, his own chest heaving. Harry laughed with him, collapsing into a jumble of limbs beside the calf who was being cleaned by an exhausted looking Nellie.
They made quick work of cleaning up the calf and the mother, moving them both to another stall so that they could clean the dirty one in the morning.
“So?” Harry asked when Louis checked the calf’s sex. “Which is it?”
Louis just grinned.
“Delilah,” he announced and Harry swept down to give the calf a kiss on the forehead and welcome her to the world. Just like her mother she was a soft brown color, exactly the color of the butterscotch candies that Harry’s grandmother had always given him.
They walked like somnambulists back from the barn, rain still falling around them and making their hair stick to their cheeks. Through the stormy clouds they could see the faint light of morning creeping over the horizon. Harry didn’t think about carrying his blankets all the way back to his shed, just followed Louis up to the main house where Louis waited for him at the doorstep before locking up. They both kicked off their boots and Harry hung his coat on the hook by the door.
“Let’s get cleaned up,” Louis said, his voice soft from exhaustion. He led Harry down the hall to the washroom where he’d shaved his face once a week for the past three months. He turned the taps above the tub until it started filling with water and began to strip out of his filthy clothes. There was muck and grime sticking to every inch of him and Harry doubted he was in much better of a state. He reached for the buttons of his pajama shirt and added his dirty clothes to the pile Louis was making on the floor.
Louis wet a washcloth and rubbed it against a bar of soap until it was frothy with bubbles and ran it over his arms, quickly turning the foam a dingy gray-brown. He wet it again and rang it out, repeating the process until his arms were pink and clean. He ran the cloth over his face, his eyes closed and mouth slack as he wiped away the sweat that had dried and left a film of dust and dirt over his skin. He gave the rest of his body a quick wash and handed Harry the washcloth. He sat on the edge of the tub and watched as Harry copied his washup process, scrubbing the filth from his skin. Louis’ eyes tracked each movement lazily, seeming half-asleep already as he watched drops of water run down Harry’s arms and over the soft of his belly, trailing down his pale legs. When he finished Louis got up and walked to the bedroom and pulled back the blankets on the bed.
Harry yawned, his back arching with the force of it, and followed him.
Louis yawned back as they crawled beneath the sheets, their heads as heavy as lead as they fell against the pillows. Rain pattered against the windows and Harry pulled the blankets up higher over his bare shoulders, sighing in relief as his eyes slid shut. He listened to Louis’ deep steady breathing and his own sluggish heartbeat.
“I was afraid she wouldn’t make it,” Louis whispered into the dark space between them when Harry had almost drifted off to sleep. “That’s why I didn’t want you to help. I thought it’d be worse if you saw her and she didn’t make it.”
Harry forced his eyes to open again so that he could look at Louis’ murky silhouette.
“You didn’t think I could handle it?” he frowned.
“No, I just...” Louis trailed off. “I’m used to it.”
“You shouldn’t be,” Harry told him.
They were both silent for a long time and Harry thought Louis might have fallen asleep.
“I’m glad you were there,” he whispered at last.
“Me too.”
Harry felt Louis’ hand searching beneath the blankets and he met it in the middle, weaving their fingers together.
The floorboards creaked under Harry’s feet as he stepped into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“There’s coffee on the table for you,” Louis said without looking up from the skillet of eggs that was popping and crackling on the stove. “Do you wanna slice some bread?”
Harry looked up and tripped over his feet, just catching himself on the back of a chair.
“Y’alright?” Louis asked, turning to look over his shoulder with his eyebrows raised.
He was wearing one of Harry’s dresses, a thin linen day dress patterned with pale purple roses and blue violets. He wore it unbuttoned fully, open like a robe over his blue and white striped shorts.
“Yeah,” Harry nodded, his voice hoarse. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get used to the sight of Louis wearing a dress.
Harry had spent every night since Delilah was born in Louis’ bed. It had only taken a few trips back and forth for them to carry his few possessions up to the farmhouse and distribute them on hangers and in drawers. Something about the sight of his dresses and skirts and blouses hanging beside Louis’ flannel shirts and patched up denim made his heart ache in a warm sort of way. Louis hadn’t hesitated to add a few of Harry’s pieces from the trunk into his own wardrobe rotation, mostly a soft red cardigan with big square pockets that he liked to wear on cold mornings. It was the dresses, though, that made some sort of unnamed emotion swirl through Harry’s belly.
Dresses were different for Louis. He wore them so casually, as if he’d just grabbed the nearest piece of clothing and thrown it on - which he often had. It made Harry wonder if he would ever feel that way, if he could ever slip soft floral linen over his head without a nervy thrill rushing through him that made his eyes prickle and his throat tight. If he could ever feel the cool press of satin against his skin without a little spark of fear running down his spine. But then again dresses didn’t mean the same thing to Louis as they did to Harry.
Still, he wondered if it would ever be so easy.
“There y’are, Darlin’,” Louis said, setting a plate of perfectly over-easy eggs in front of Harry at the table and kissing his cheek.
“Thank you.” Harry set his coffee back on the table and shifted Snowbell who was purring happily in his lap. Louis sat in the chair across from him, the dress hanging loose off one shoulder and the pale fabric highlighting the soft caramel glow of his skin. Harry tore off a corner of his toast and used the edge to break the film over the yokes of his eggs so that the yellow-orange ran across the plate.
“I’ve got something for you,” Louis said when Harry was mopping up the last of the yoke with his last bite of toast.
“Oh?” Harry asked, a smile growing across his face. “What is it?”
Louis set his napkin on the table and stood up, reaching into the pocket of the dress with a wry smile. He came around to Harry’s side of the table and stood behind him, pulling out a string of shining pearls and draping them across Harry’s clavicle.
“You fixed it?” Harry asked, grinning in surprise.
Louis had found the pearls sitting loose in an old jar in one of Harry’s drawers and Harry had explained sadly that the string had snapped one night when he was wearing them and the pearls had scattered everywhere.
“Yeah,” Louis told him, closing the clasp at the nape of Harry’s neck and smoothing out the collar of his red flannel robe that Harry had borrowed. “Found some string in one of my toolboxes.” He used his thumb to sweep aside the dark curls that were now long enough to brush Harry’s shoulders and leaned down to press his lips to Harry’s neck.
Harry laid his hand over his own bare chest, feeling the smooth pearls against the soft sparse hairs, and leaned his head back against Louis’ shoulder. He wondered if the new string would last forever, if he’d still be wearing it when he was the age of the woman who had left it behind. He wondered if it would wear and break again over time and if Louis would still be the one to repair it for him.
“What’s this from?” Harry asked, tracing over the raised slash of white scar tissue that ran across the very top of Louis’ bicep with the tips of his fingers.
They were laid together in the tub, basking in the rare luxury of warm water. Harry had been washing Louis’ hair but he’d quickly been distracted by the paths of the suds as they dripped from Louis’ jaw and down his neck to trail over his shoulders and chest. Louis’ eyes were closed, his dark lashes heavy against his cheeks, and Harry was keen to look his fill, taking his time examining every inch of the other man.
“Normandy,” Louis said, blinking his eyes halfway open and turning his head to see where Harry was following the line of the gash with a featherlight touch. “It was a gunshot.”
Harry frowned and slid further down in the tub to press a light kiss to the raised skin.
“Do you have others?”
“I’ve got this one.”
Louis lifted his leg out of the water and ran a finger over a long jagged scar that ran from his kneecap to one side of his thigh.
“How’d you get it?” Harry asked, tracing that one as well and feeling where his leg hair stopped growing and his skin turned puckered and shiny.
“Fell out of a tree,” Louis said, one corner of his mouth twisted in a smile. “We had a night off and got drunk as skunks. Some of the boys dared me to climb one of the trees just outside the camp. I made it near to the top before I fell. The general was pissed and I got sh*t for weeks after.”
“Was it good ever?” Harry asked. “Over there?”
“There were moments,” Louis said. He let his leg sink back down in the water. “It felt easier, sometimes. Like I knew what I was supposed to do. I had a purpose. A use.”
“And you had friends?”
“Yeah.” Louis brought his hand to Harry’s chest, right where his pearl necklace usually rested. “War is a great unifier,” he said sardonically. “Nobody wants to die surrounded by strangers.”
He trailed his forefinger down the dip of Harry’s chest and circled his naval, a faraway look in his eyes. Harry pressed his lips to his wet shoulder and the corner of Louis’ mouth quirked up.
“That was easier too, sometimes,” he said softly.
“I wasn’t the first man you kissed, was I?”
“No,” Louis smiled, shaking his head. “You weren’t. Men get much less picky when they don’t have options.”
“And you touched them the way you touch me?”
“Sort of,” Louis said, moving to trace shapes on Harry’s hip. “It was different.”
“How?”
Louis thought for a moment, watching the slick trail of water his fingers left on Harry’s pale skin when his lines dipped below the water.
“It was always different for me than it was for them. It always meant more to me. I was just a hand in the dark, just a means to an end. They were always going to go home and go back to their wives and their girlfriends and I would always be an old army buddy who helped them through it. They’d forget it ever happened, or at least they’d pretend to. But I couldn’t.”
“Did you love any of them?” Harry asked, watching the soap suds that swirled through the water and gathered around their bodies, catching in the dark hair that trailed below Louis’ belly.
“I thought I did sometimes,” Louis smiled sadly, “but it wasn’t real. There’s no love in war.”
“Could you have, though? Somewhere else?”
“What do you mean?”
Harry bit his lip and pressed his nose to Louis’ shoulder. His breath fanned down over the tiny mountain range of a scar that jutted across his outer arm.
Harry knew that he wasn’t the first man to kiss another man, that there were men who slept with men the way they did with women. He knew there were men who turned to each other for comfort in times of desperation, the way nameless men had turned to Louis. He’d heard hissed reports of rumors and scandals, loud chortling jokes that rang like a warning bell and rattled in his head for days afterwards every time. He’d heard about the sex, about the darkened alleyway trysts and helping hands in dark theaters. He’d heard about the kiss that damned Christ to death -- but he’d never heard about anything like him and Louis.
“Do you think men can love other men?”
“Of course,” Louis said without hesitation.
“Not in a brotherly sense,” Harry clarified, lifting his head and leveling their gazes, looking through knit brows. “The way that men love women. The way that husbands and wives do.”
“Yes,” Louis said, a grin creeping over his face. He raised his thumb and pressed it to the crease above Harry’s nose. “I do.”
“But how?” Harry asked. “How do you know they can?”
Louis smiled and traced his thumb down Harry’s cheek to his pouting mouth.
“Because I love you,” he said as if it was the easiest thing in the world. As if Harry had simply asked about the weather. “The way a husband loves a wife,” he clarified, a teasing lilt in his voice.
“Oh.” The confused frown slowly melted from Harry’s face in favor of a dazed little grin. “Do you really?”
“I do,” Louis said, pressing this thumb into the ditch of Harry’s dimple. “Really.”
Harry dropped his head bashfully to Louis’ shoulder and pressed his smile into the skin there.
“I think I love you too,” he said softly into the space below Louis’ collarbone. “The way a wife loves a husband.”
“Well,” Louis said, a pleased grin on his face, “that’s mighty convenient.”
He looped his arms around Harry’s waist and pulled him closer until they were completely intertwined, water lapping around them.
“I love you,” he whispered, lips pressed against Harry’s damp hair.
Harry nipped lightly at Louis’ chest and tilted his head to press his lips to the underside of Louis’ jaw.
“I love you,” he whispered, feeling the stubble scrape against his lips. The words poured over his tongue like honey. “I love you.”
“I’d marry you in a heartbeat you know,” Louis said softly in Harry’s ear, making him shiver. “If I could.”
“Yeah?” Harry asked, pink blooming across his cheeks.
“Yeah,” Louis nodded.
“What would it be like? If we married.”
“We wouldn’t be doing any of this,” Louis laughed lightly, sliding his hand lower in the water and pinching Harry lightly at the very top of his thigh. “Not before the wedding, at least. It wouldn’t be proper.”
“Of course,” Harry grinned. “My mother would make sure of it. She’s very fond of propriety.”
“Mine would love you,” Louis smiled. “She’d cry the whole ceremony. She’d have to wait for the photos to be developed to see how beautiful you looked in your dress.”
“My dress?” Harry asked, something squeezing tight in his chest.
“You’re my bride, aren’t you?”
Harry pressed his heated cheek to Louis’ neck.
He nodded.
“I am.”
“The most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen,” Louis said, rubbing his hand over Harry’s spine and tracing the ridges with his fingers. “Like something from a storybook. I’d be asking God what I did to deserve someone like you standing beside me at the altar.”
“And what about after? When I was yours and you were mine?”
Louis smiled.
“Our wedding night?” he asked. “When I’d take you home and carry you over the doorstep? When I’d lay you down and take my time undoing each button of your dress?”
“Yeah,” Harry nodded, his face tucked in the crook of Louis’ neck.
“I’d show you how a husband loves a wife,” Louis said lowly, his breath curling over the shell of Harry’s ear. “I’d spread you out and I’d show you what love feels like.”
Harry’s breath caught in his throat and his pulse pounded loud in his ears.
“Show me.”
Together they scrambled from the tub, laughing breathlessly as water sloshed over the sides and made their feet slip on the tile floor. Louis drug Harry back to the bedroom and pressed a searing kiss to his lips before pulling back.
“Just a second,” he said, grinning. He squeezed Harry’s hand once and left him beside the bed, half-jogging towards the kitchen.
Harry spun slowly in the middle of the floor, giddy anticipation blooming in his chest. His eyes fell on the dresser, its top now laden with jewelry and hats and gloves and one gold tube of lipstick. His pearl necklace lay coiled like a ribbon and when he placed it around his neck the weight of the cold pearls on his heated skin made him shiver.
Hanging from a hook beside the dresser was a waterfall of tulle and yellowed lace. Harry ran a finger over the lace, following the scalloped edge to one of the jagged gashes. One of the kittens had gotten into their room and added to the tatters in the veil, shredding the bottom of it and leaving it frayed and torn.
Harry startled when a hand came into his line of vision to lift the veil from the hook.
Louis turned him gently with a hand on his shoulder. Harry’s black top hat was set on his head, his wet hair dripping beneath it, and he was grinning. He lifted the veil over Harry’s head and draped it around him. The combs gripped easily to his damp curls and Harry watched as Louis carefully arranged the tulle to cascade around his shoulders.
“There,” he said, satisfied at last. “Just like I told you. The prettiest bride I’ve ever seen.”
“Fantabulosa,” Harry said hoarsely and swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. Louis laughed. He settled his hands on Harry’s hips and pulled him in for a long kiss that made his knees feel weak and wobbly. The top hat was knocked to the ground but Louis left it where it was, satisfied with its effect.
“If you were my bride I’d kiss you for hours, everywhere, until I knew every inch of you. Until you couldn’t stand it any longer.”
“Please,” Harry whispered.
Louis walked him back to the bed and laid him out across the quilt, the veil spread like an angel’s wings around him. Harry melted easily against the pillows and looked up with an eager smile, his body thrumming in anticipation of Louis’ touch. He watched curiously as Louis knelt down at the end of the bed and took Harry’s left foot in his hands. He leaned down and lifted it up to meet him, pressing a soft kiss to the rosy curve of it. Harry giggled lightly at the feeling and wiggled his toes. Louis pressed another kiss to the top of his foot and moved up to his ankle, kissing the knob of it.
“I love you,” he said and flowers bloomed.
Louis moved up to his shin and followed the hard line of bone with his lips. He kissed over the curve of Harry’s knee cap and up his thigh, pausing to bite and suck little marks along the way. Harry waited in anticipation as Louis moved closer and closer to his co*ck, now hard and aching, but he moved straight past it and onto the opposite thigh with only a quick wry glance up to Harry as he passed it. He made his way back down Harry’s right leg, mirroring his path of kisses and bruises and nips. He kissed again over the arch of Harry’s foot and Harry wondered if this was how it felt to have one’s feet washed by Christ - to be served by a king.
Louis folded his fingers over Harry’s toes and gave them a squeeze before crawling back up the bed, landing now at Harry’s middle. Harry wondered if at last he would be given relief but Louis just began a new path of kisses across the soft skin of his hips and his belly, pausing to bite lightly at the soft swell below his navel.
“I love you,” he said again, the words fluttering around Harry’s head on butterflies’ wings as Louis’ lips pressed to the center of his chest. He fit his teeth over the nub of Harry’s nipple and bit down, making Harry hiss. The hiss turned into a whine as Louis laved away the sting with his tongue. He gave the same treatment to the other nipple and Harry raised his hand to twist his fingers in Louis’ hair, unsure if he was pushing him away or pulling him closer. Louis licked a stripe across Harry’s collarbone and drug his lips down over his shoulder. He took hold of Harry’s wrist and held it out so that he could nose down beneath Harry’s arm to where fresh sweat was prickling and darkening the soft hair and Harry twitched at the tickling sensation. He moved across Harry’s inner arm, where the skin was pale and soft as silk over his newly hardened muscles, and down to the crook of his elbow where his tongue darted out again. He traced the blue lines of veins down Harry’s wrist and pressed his lips to the center of Harry’s palm, feeling the calluses that had formed from months of farm work.
When he parted his lips and placed Harry’s fingers on the hot velvet of his tongue Harry wasn't sure if he was in heaven or hell.
“Please,” Harry said at last, his voice as rough as if he’d been crying. “Please. More.”
“I’ve got you,” Louis promised, kissing the pads of his fingers. “Anything you want, Darlin’.”
“I want everything,” Harry told him. “I want you to show me everything.”
“I will.”
Louis kneed up between Harry’s legs and took up the tin of Crisco he’d brought from the kitchen.
“How do you want it?” Louis asked, leaning down to kiss across his jaw. “Which way?”
“I want to be your bride,” Harry blushed. “The way you said.”
Louis sealed their lips together in a bruising kiss, their teeth clicking against each other.
“Have you ever done this to yourself?” Louis asked, opening the lid on the tin. “With your fingers?”
“I tried a couple of times,” Harry admitted, feeling suddenly shy as Louis nudged his knees further apart. “After that day behind the barn. I got curious.”
Louis looked up at him with a grin and scooped up some of the thick white shortening with his fingertips.
“How did it feel?”
“I don’t know,” Harry said, twisting his mouth as he remembered. “I’m not sure I did it right.”
“Can I?” Louis asked, smoothing his free hand over Harry’s hip.
“Of course,” Harry said, offering himself up to Louis’ touch. “You can do anything. I’m yours.”
“Mine,” Louis repeated, surging forward again to kiss him. “Always.”
The press of Louis’ fingers felt strange and foreign at first but Louis distracted him with his mouth as he massaged and loosened his muscles.
“So tight,” Louis muttered against his hip bone, expert fingers working in smooth little circles. “So perfect. Do you know how lucky I am to be the first man to touch you? Can’t believe you’re really mine.”
“Forever,” Harry said, his voice slightly strained.
“My bride,” Louis smiled.
Louis' fingers felt much better than his own and by the time Louis declared him ready Harry felt desperate and raw, his body aching for something he’d only just gotten a taste of.
“Tell me to stop and I will,” Louis told him as he shuffled forward, looking suddenly nervous as he settled over Harry. “I’ve never done it like this.”
“Like how?”
Louis smiled self-deprecatingly.
“I was always the wife before.”
Harry flushed but parted his legs further around Louis’ knees.
“I trust you.”
“I love you,” Louis promised like a prayer as he settled between Harry’s thighs, using his clean hand to feel the heat of Harry’s pink cheek. He hitched Harry’s knee higher and sank forward and Harry let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. It wasn’t long before the discomfort and the pressure shifted into something else and Harry was pulling at Louis, silently begging for more.
“So good for me,” Louis panted, pressing his open mouth to Harry’s shoulder. Condensation formed on Harry’s skin from the heat of his breath. “So perfect.”
He hit something inside of Harry that had sparks of pleasure shooting down his legs and up his spine and Harry keened, fingers scrambling at Louis’ back to pull him closer.
“Please,” he gasped. “More.”
Louis punched his hips forward harder, aiming now with a purpose. Harry cried out each time, his fingers clenching into tight fists.
“Love you so much I can’t hardly stand it,” Louis babbled, seeming just as overwhelmed as Harry was. “So good for me, Darlin’. My perfect girl.”
Harry gasped and clenched down hard.
“‘s that okay?” Louis asked, his thrusts slowing as he looked up in concern. “Too much?”
“No,” Harry shook his head, clutching at Louis desperately to keep him from pulling away. “It's good. I like it. Want it.”
“You do?” Louis asked hesitantly and Harry nodded his head, ears pink. “You like me calling you a girl?”
“Your girl,” Harry said. He caught Louis’ hand and raised it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the heel of his palm. “I wanna be your girl.”
Louis let out a shaky breath and pulled him into a kiss.
“You are,” he promised. “My girl. My darlin’. My bride. Everything.”
He started back up with a fervor, wrapping his hand around Harry’s co*ck and stripping it in time with his thrusts.
“Always make such sweet sounds,” he panted, coaxing another moan with a well-aimed thrust. “So sweet. My sweet girl. Sweet as honey for me.”
Harry ground his head back against the bed and clenched his eyes shut, feeling overwhelmed tears welling up along his lashes. The combs of the veil had come loose and it lay in a tangled mess all around him. He writhed beneath Louis, trying clumsily to grind down against his co*ck while pushing up into his hand. It was too much, the pleasure turning almost to pain. His body was pulled as tight as a piano string before suddenly he snapped.
Harry let out a wanton moan and spilled over Louis’ fist.
Louis f*cked him through it, until it became too much. Then he pulled out gently and pulled himself to completion across Harry’s belly, letting their cum mix together on his skin. He collapsed onto the bed with his head on Harry’s shoulder, his chest heaving.
“I love you,” he whispered, resting his hand over Harry’s still racing heart.
“I love you,” Harry whispered back. He turned his head and pressed his nose against Louis’. He felt as if he’d been consumed by the other man, as if there was nothing else in the world but him. All he could smell was Louis, his sweat and his cum, tobacco and hay and bar soap. All he could see was Louis, his long dark eyelashes and his silver blue irises and the freckles that dotted his skin like speckles on a robin’s egg.
“I love you,” he whispered, and mountains moved.
Gemma,
I’m sorry. I know it might be too late for that now. I know Mama’s probably still furious with me and Dad’s probably had his hands full keeping her contained. Tell them sorry for me too. And Audrey, if you see her. Tell her it had nothing to do with her. I know I f*cked everything up but I thought I ought to let you all know I’m alive. Well, the man I’m staying with thought I should.
I’m sorry I left the way I did, without saying goodbye. I didn’t plan any of this, really. I got scared and I ran. I wasn’t thinking. But I was right, I think. Marrying Audrey would have just made everything worse in the long run. I would have been miserable. I was never going to love her and I think you know that. I think Mama probably knows it too, deep down.
I’m happy here. Happier than I ever have been. I’ve learned a lot about farmwork and animals and about me. And I’ve got cats now - three of them! Just like I always wanted when we were kids. And we’re building a chicken coop tomorrow. We’ll be able to raise them from babies. I wish you could see it all, I think you’d love it here. Maybe someday you could visit and see what I’ve been doing.
I hope you can understand, but I know Mama won’t.
Tell them I love them when you tell them I’m sorry.
I won’t tell you where I am in case Mama finds this but if you don’t hate me and you’d like to write back send it to Horan’s Feed Store and they’ll get it to me.
-Harry
Harry wasn’t sure how he got there but he sometimes thought it must have been fate. Standing in the creek, cool water swirling lazily around his legs and a beautiful golden body with its back turned just in front of him, he felt as if he must be dreaming. Louis’ shoulders were glowing in the afternoon light, his skin dripping with water as soap suds ran down the small of his back and floated away with the current. Harry was struck dumb, the bar of soap left useless against his belly, and when Louis glanced back his lips twisted in a smirk.
“You oughta close your mouth or you’ll catch flies,” Louis told him, drifting close enough to take the soap from Harry’s slack fingers. “Here,” he said, working it into a quick lather and running it over Harry’s chest. He felt the goosebumps that rose across his skin and his eyes sparkled in delight. Harry was always so sensitive to his touch. Louis hummed as he brought the bar lower on his belly, ducking his head to press a lazy kiss to Harry’s sun-pink shoulder.
“You know I realized something,” Louis said later, walking back through the field towards the house. Their linked hands swung loosely between them.
“What’s that?” Harry asked. He tucked a loose strand of wet hair behind his ear and silently wished they’d remembered to bring towels. Even in the heat of late summer with freshly cut hair he was still dripping water all over the collar of his cotton sundress.
“You never gave me an answer,” Louis said wryly. “When you first came here I told you to let me know when you figured out where you wanted to go. You never told me.”
“I guess I didn’t.”
“So?” Louis asked, laughing as he swung their hands. “Where are you gonna go?”
Harry thought of the old shed, the one that hadn’t been used for anything but storage in years. He thought of the barn where he’d learned to milk cows and birth calves, of the calves he’d raised and their calves that he’d helped to birth when they grew. He thought of the house with the kitchen he used to bake cakes for each birthday and the bed he shared each night with Louis and the wardrobe that was steadily overfilling with catalogue-ordered blouses and dresses. As they came closer to the house he could see three cats sitting on the windowsill waiting for them, pawing at the glass.
Before Louis, back when he went to the schools his parents told him to and wore the clothes they picked out for him and proposed to the girl they chose for him, he’d have laughed at the thought that he could be a farmer’s wife. But now he couldn’t picture living any other way.
“I’m gonna stay right here,” Harry grinned, lifting their joined hands and pressing his lips to the back of Louis’ hand. “You’re stuck with me now.”
“And I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Louis smiled. He pulled Harry in and looped his arms around his waist, trapping him against his chest. “You ain’t going nowhere, Darlin’.”
