A/N: Since I was so hard on Harry in the last chapter, it's only fair that I throw him a huge party in this one.

Also, he's wearing Gucci again. I can't help myself.

LOUIS / PRESENT

The party for Harry would be held in the atrium of the Royal Opera House. Anyone who was anyone would be there, including noted politicians and members of the royal family.

I was trying not to be jealous but it was hard when Harry's face was splashed all over the arts section of every fucking newspaper in London, with headings like, "He May Not Be Playing Prince Siegfried but Harry Styles is the Prince of Our Hearts."

Kill me.

I met up with Niall at the pub before the party. I was already half in the bag. I needed to sober up so I could get drunk again later.

He rushed in and pulled up a stool. "Sorry I'm late. I had an extra meeting with the orchestra tacked onto my day."

He set down his briefcase and called the waitress over.

I fingered the felt coaster and set down my empty glass. "What was the meeting about?"

"Oh, nothing." Niall cleaned his glasses on his shirt.

He was acting unusually discreet. Normally he loved swapping anecdotes about work.

"Spill."

He eyed me guiltily. "Oh alright. Harry asked me to introduce him to the orchestra."

"What?" This was unheard of. A music director would never formally introduce a dancer to the orchestra, the choreographer maybe, but never a dancer.

I got my back up. "What could he possibly have to say to the orchestra?"

"He had few ideas about tempo."

I almost fell out of my chair. "And you didn't throw him out?"

"It's completely unorthodox, but Harry had some interesting things to say. He has a profound understanding of the libretto."

Had the entire city gone mad? I thought Niall, the steely pragmatist, would see Harry for the overrated prima donna he was, but even he had Harry fever.

"Niall, are you hearing yourself right now?"

"I was surprised too. You should have seen him have a go at the concertmaster. It got fuckin' ugly, mate. The weird part was, Harry was right."

Two words I didn't like hearing together: "Harry" and "right."

I flagged the waitress and ordered another pint. "What is there to discuss? I mean the score is over a hundred years old. It is what it is."

"Actually--and Harry brought this up during the meeting--Tchaikovsky's handwritten score is lost. Most ballet companies use Riccardo Drigo's revised score from the 1895 revival, not the score from the original 1877 production."

"Does Saint Harry have the original score? Did Tchaikovsky's ghost come to him in a dream?"

Niall laughed. "Harry knows as much about the original score as the rest of us. But he is familiar with the letters Tchaikovsky wrote in 1875 to Sergei Taneyev while he was composing. Harry studied the letters in their original Russian."

"Ugh, of course he did... Unless the score is in those letters I don't see the point."

He swished his beer around in his glass and brought it to his lips. "He sees the letters as an emotional map to unlocking the ballet."

I kept waiting for Niall to say something that wasn't just a bunch of new age nonsense.

"Niall, aren't we just avoiding the truth that's staring us right in the face. Harry is a control freak! He wants to control every aspect of the ballet, from the choreography to the orchestra to casting, and we're letting him!"

"Harry's in good company. Tchaikovsky was the exact same way. He knew every instrument in the orchestra inside and out, knew what notes sounded best on each instrument. The best note on the oboe at that time was F sharp—that what gives Swan Lake's theme its poignancy."

"You're forgetting one thing. Harry is not Tchaikovsky!"

"Tchaikovsky's contemporaries didn't think he was a genius either. Swan Lake was a flop."

I got the point, but I still thought Harry was pulling the wool over our eyes. Moreover, Harry would never be the misunderstood genius to me. He would always be the scared kid who didn't know the difference between Nijinsky and Nureyev. When I met him he would be happy to make it through one ballet class without getting expelled, now he wasn't even content to be a principal dancer, he had to run the entire Royal Ballet!

***

In all my time with the company I had never seen a spectacle like the one they put on for Harry's party.

The atrium was transformed into Swan Lake's enchanted forest. Hundreds of willow trees were brought in, along with a ceiling of wisteria, beds of live moss, and fountains filled with lily pads and tea lights. The caterer for the royal family was hired, as was the full orchestra, lending an air of ceremony to the evening. I wasn't sure if I was at a party or a coronation.

Harry was wearing another one of his wildly inappropriate Gucci suits. The floral pattern blended seamlessly with the party's woodland decor. As soon as he entered the atrium the place went silent and he was guided to the center for a special presentation, a gift from the students of the Royal Ballet School.

Dozens of apple-cheeked little girls in white tutus lined up before him. Each girl carried a single white rose and one by one they curtseyed and placed a rose in Harry's hands. His face remained stony, unimpressed by this display of reverence. The very last girl held a black ribbon to tie all the flowers together into a bouquet. Her tiny hands shook as she approached Harry. Carefully, she looped the ribbon around the stems, but her hands were trembling so bad she was unable to tie a bow. Harry's expression softened. "Don't be frightened." He kneeled down and helped her.

They literally rolled out the red carpet for him. (I should know. I tripped on it twice.) Harry strolled down the carpet, greeting his esteemed guests with dutiful politeness. Liam guided him by the small of his back. "Who's next?" Harry would whisper, and Liam would point to the next socialite or cabinet member dying to shake his hand. After making his way through the throng of guests, Harry was escorted by Liam to the head of the verdant archway atop a riser with a small podium. He was about to make a speech.

Liam handed him a flute of champagne and a microphone.

I glided up to Zayn. He was in awe of everything. "This is unreal," he said, leaning on the bar, a cocktail in one hand and caviar in the other.

"Some might call it a bit much."

"Some might call you jealous."

I frowned.

Harry cleared his throat. I kept chatting with Zayn but stopped when I got dirty looks from the people around me who were trying to listen to Harry.

"I'd like to begin by thanking the man who brought me here, Kenneth O'Hare, our artistic director and fearless leader."

I sneered. Kenneth wasn't leading any of us. Harry had him under his thumb.

"I'd like to call up two of my castmates and dearest friends from school... Gigi Hadid and Eleanor Calder."

The girls walked up onto the riser and stood on either side of him, both in beaded mini dresses that showed off their long, coltish legs. Gigi wore her blonde hair up in an austere twist, while Eleanor's dark hair fell down her back like a velvet curtain.

"My white swan and my black swan," he said, giving each of them a kiss on the cheek. Then he regaled the crowd with tales of them torturing him in school—dolling him up in their tutus and makeup. "The first time I partnered with Gigi I dropped her fifty-one times!"

The crowd erupted with laughter. They were eating this up.

"I'd like to thank Zayn Malik for introducing me to books, music and art I never would have discovered on my own and for his creative guidance over the years."

Zayn put a hand over his heart.

"Oh please," I hissed.

"I'd like to thank Niall Horan for his generous spirit and his friendship."

What friendship? They'd only met a few weeks ago.

He thanked the corps de ballet for their "tireless effort." He thanked the Madame Lesauvage and the Royal Ballet School, "for taking a chance on a clueless kid from Cheshire." He thanked the administration, he thanked the patrons, he thanked Princess Anne and her daughter Zara, and he thanked his former colleagues at the Bolshoi. Then he paused. "I have one more person I'd like to thank. A person instrumental in my decision to come back to London. The reason I'm here with you right now."

I stood up straight.

"Thank you Liam Payne, our assistant director." He motioned for Liam to join him. "I wasn't friends with Liam in school. He was the best dancer at the academy and I was too intimidated! But he was a constant source of inspiration. He's made me feel so welcome here."

Foolishly, I waited for Harry to thank me, to include my name, even if it was just in a list among other names. But he didn't. The speech was over.

A waiter skated by with a bottle of champagne and tray of glasses. I nicked the bottle and a glass.

As soon as Harry's speech was over, the orchestra started up and people took to the dance floor. Zayn left me to dance with Gigi. Eleanor was dancing in a circle with the little girls from RBS, and Liam and Niall were deep in conversation about administrative matters. I wished Jeffrey were here but he was at home licking his wounds after being let go from the production.

Harry was completely surrounded. Princess Anne, the Queen's daughter, linked an arm through his and together they navigated the crowd of eager guests all clamoring to get a piece of him. I remembered when Prince Andrew came to the ballet during our run of Romeo & Juliet. He never asked to meet me but it was the highlight of my year. Harry had a high-ranking member of the royal family here for him and him alone, hanging on his every word and he seemed totally unfazed.

I needed to get out of there.

I moved through the atrium, the stupid tree branches slapping my face at every turn. It was impossible to get anywhere in this crowd. There were so many people, all of them with Harry's name on their lips. Harry, Harry, Harry. The sound of his name carried in the air like the rustling of the trees.

Once out of the atrium, I found myself at the door of the auditorium. I thought it would be locked, but it was open. I slipped inside and the door slammed behind me, shutting out the sounds of the party so that I felt completely alone.

The auditorium looked smaller when there was no one in it. But I felt big. I skipped down the soft carpet aisle and climbed up on stage. Since nobody had any plans to celebrate me I had to celebrate myself. I untwisted and popped the cork, champagne foam pouring out all over my hand and down my arm. I poured a glass and toasted myself. "To me!" I threw it back and poured another. This wasn't so bad. I didn't need a whole room full of people worshipping me. All I needed was the stage and good glass of champagne.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a tall figure move in the shadowed wing of the stage.

"What are you doing?" a voice boomed.

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

It was Harry.

"What am I doing? What are you doing sneaking up on me like that? You're like the Phantom of the Opera!"

Harry was no longer wearing his suit. His hair was tied back and he was in sweats and a fitted white t-shirt.

"Why aren't you at your party?"

"I need to rehearse."

How ungrateful could one person be? This party cost the company a fortune. There was literally royalty out there falling at his feet.

"Don't you think that's a bit rude?"

He paced the length of the stage and began to stretch. "No, I don't. They came to my party because they love my dancing. They love my dancing because I rehearse. Now leave."

I hugged the champagne bottle. "I was here first! You leave!"

"You're not doing anything!"

"Yes I am!" I poured myself another glass and took a sip. "See."

"Louis." He crossed his arms.

I leaned back on one elbow. "Great speech by the way. I loved it. Though, I think you forgot to thank a few people: the waiters, the janitor, the girl who delivers bagels in the morning, I mean there were some serious omissions. Quite embarrassing really."

He tried to dance around me but I kept moving making it impossible.

He stopped, exasperated.

"Why didn't you thank me, Harry?" I said, looking into my glass with a tipsy sadness.

"I didn't know what to say... Louis, I'm trying to work. Please go."

"I'll go if you give me a thank you speech."

Harry pursed his lips, wrestling internally with this proposition. "No."

"Oh, come on! You thanked every single person in the company except me! Don't you have at least one nice thing you can say about me?"

"Thank you for shooting me with a crossbow."

"You're welcome. Keep going. I want a thank you speech, not a thank you sentence."

He sighed and plucked the flute of champagne from my hands. I lay back, my legs crossed at the ankle, soaking in the attention like sunshine.

"Louis, thank you for teaching me to keep my back straight and my chin up doing a grand plié. Thank you for sharing your dorm room with me. Thank you for being my friend when no one else would. Thank you for being my first kiss and my first... crush." His cheeks turned pink.

"Harry."

"I gave you your thank you speech, now go," he ordered, pointing to the exit, stage right.

How could I leave after that? I got up and faced him. "You were my first crush too."

"You don't have to say that."

"It's true!" Oh my god, I adored him! He had to know that. How could he not?

I undid my tie and rolled up my sleeves. "Let me rehearse with you."

He tensed. "I prefer to rehearse alone."

"Yeah, yeah, you have your process. But we're going to be dancing on this stage together eventually, so you may as well get used to it. Let's rehearse one of our scenes together. How about Act Four?"

I kicked off my shoes and stood in socked feet.

"You don't have your slippers. You'll break your neck."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" I grinned. "Then you'd get to play Siegfried."

Harry drew his t-shirt off over his head. "You and I both know that part would be mine if I wanted it. I don't."

"Why? Is the part too demanding?" I said primly.

"No, it's too dull."

The scene we were rehearsing was a battle. I pushed and pulled and threw him to the ground. My movements were constricted somewhat by my clothes, but Harry was lithe and liquid, half naked with a sheen of sweat. His large warm hands clasped mine and he swung me into a series of dizzying pirouettes. We circled the stage and attacked with leaps and strides, figuratively trying to kill each other.

As usual, Harry's count was off.

"You're supposed to be fighting me, Harry, not the choreography!"

"Can't I do both?" he called, his long tattooed arms sweeping past me.

"You're fucking up my count!"

"So follow mine."

I followed him and it felt disorienting. The count was the like the foundation of a house, without it everything else felt like it was on the verge of collapse. Harry thrived on this instability. I lost track of where I was and Harry snuck up behind me, one arm locked around my waist, the other across my neck.

"I think I just killed poor Siegfried," he breathed in my ear.

I fell back against his chest in surrender. "Well, he has to die anyway."

He released me and got a drink of water. I took a swig of champagne straight from the bottle.

"Nice," he said. "I can see you're taking this rehearsal very seriously."

"Oh, of course."

He got ready to start from the beginning of the scene but I blindsided him with something completely different. Harry recognized the spritely jumps immediately.

A Midsummer Night's Dream.

He covered his mouth to hide his smile. I made him smile! I couldn't believe it.

I remembered our old routine like it was yesterday and to my delight, so did Harry. Gamely, he opened his arms and launched into the slow lovelorn movements of Lysander. My sweet Lysander!

We used the whole stage, crisscrossing and spinning around each other. It was completely different than dancing Swan Lake, lighter, freer, comedy instead of tragedy, the rhythm so familiar it didn't even feel like dancing, it simply felt like us: me and Harry.

"Wait," I said, thinking back to our winter showcase. "Let's do Beauchamp's choreography."

I walked to the center of the stage and performed half of the meticulously blocked pas de deux, extending my arm and waiting for him to perform the other half.

Harry's expression hardened. "I need to work now. No more messing around."

"Oh, come on, we're actually having fun for once." I took his hand and he snatched it back, furious.

"This isn't a joke to me!"

"Christ, Harry." What was wrong with him? "You have plenty of time to rehearse. Live a little."

He faced forward, gazing at the empty seats in the auditorium as though it were a packed house. "That's why they'll never throw parties in your honor, Louis. You're good but you have no idea what it takes to be great. You don't know the meaning of sacrifice."

My body went cold.

"If you won't leave, I'll go to the studio."

"I'll leave," I snapped, putting my shoes and tie back on. "You know what, Harry? You might be the world's best dancer but you're a really shitty friend."

"Lock the door on your way out," was all he said in response.

A/N: I know this chapter ends on a sour note, but H&L are slowly growing closer...

Why do you think Harry's being so controlling about the production? Why didn't he mention Louis in his speech?

Next week's "past" chapter is another major turn in the plot. I wrote Act II back in February, so I've been DYING to get to this next twist. I hope you're surprised by what happens.

Right now I'm writing Act III but I just outlined Act IV. (Each act will be about ten chapters.) I had sort of a breakthrough in the planning of Act IV. I'm excited!

I forgot to mention this last week, but in Chapter Ten Louis tells Harry about the last boy Beauchamp took to Paris: Hans Faust. Remember that name. It comes up again later.

Here's Von Rothbart in action. I love this costume!

https://youtu.be/1syauNowTag