A/N: Thank you Lord for getting me through the last chapter. Onto greener pastures!

I've added Bijou to this week's collage because why not.

LOUIS / PRESENT

We were a few weeks away from dress rehearsal and tensions were running high.

Harry's presence in the company had brought the production unprecedented levels of attention. Tickets sold out seconds after going on sale. The list of celebrities and nobility who would be in attendance rivaled that of a royal wedding! I was so terrified of fucking up I had a recurring nightmare of falling offstage. Rehearsal had become my life. When I wasn't practicing with Gigi and the rest of the company during the day, I was logging extra hours in the studio at night to perfect my solos. However, it was hard to concentrate on work when every five minutes I had someone come up to me complaining about Harry.

Niall was furious with him for going above his head and giving notes to the obo player. Zayn was still bitter about losing his solo. Liam was pissed because Harry refused to let them use his face on the programme, suggesting they use an abstract painting instead. Maurice was basically a prisoner of war.

Even the girls had snapped. He'd changed both of their solos multiple times and demanded they rehearse on his erratic schedule. They took powernaps between punishing sessions of partnerwork. They looked like ghouls every morning with pasty complexions and dark circles beneath their eyes: Two dead swans.

I don't know how I escaped his wrath considering we hated each other, but I went about my business without incident. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. Harry watched me dance from behind his dark curls, his green eyes following me around the studio like a homing device. I braced myself for some bitchy comment about my technique but it never came. Sometimes he would even praise my dancing.

"Not terrible, Louis."

"Fuck you very much."

Still, it was hard to ignore the chorus of complaints that were growing, especially when Liam cornered me in my dressing room before rehearsal to address the issue head on.

I was putting on my beaten slippers when he entered the room, cheeks red with fury.

"This has to end!" Liam grabbed the bottle of water off my vanity, splashing the floor before it reached his lips. He hobbled around the room, too angry to be self-conscious about his limp. "He's changed every aspect of this production to his liking. Now he's refusing to do any interviews to promote it! I had him booked on The Morning Show! Television, Louis. Television about dancing that's not Strictly Come Dancing. This could have been huge for us!"

"Is this the part where I say I told you so, or..."

He was shaking, he was so mad. I'd never seen someone as reserved as Liam lose control of his emotions like that. He personified ballet with his composure and effortless grace, no matter how hard he worked to conceal the effort it took to maintain such poise. All of that had fallen away. Harry had stripped what little civility he could feign.

"I'm staging an intervention."

"He's not a drug addict, Liam, he's just a twat."

"Everyone's agreed to participate, even the girls, and you know they've always had a soft spot for him."

"He won't go for it," I said, looking at my tired reflection in the mirror. "We've all tried talking to him. Nothing works."

"We've all tried talking to him individually. If the company comes together in one room, he'll have no choice but to back down. Strength in numbers."

I had to admit, the idea of giving Harry a public flogging gave me a twinge of satisfaction. I could already picture his defeated expression as he was told "no" by a room of his peers.

"Are you in?" Liam asked. "This won't work without you. I need your support."

"I'm in."

I checked my phone on the way to the auditorium. I had six missed calls from Jeffrey. I hadn't spoken to him in weeks. I wanted to see him, I really did, but by the time I got home at night after a grueling rehearsal I just wasn't in the mood. It was normal, I told myself. I was close to dress rehearsal. Work was demanding. So what if I wanted to spend more time in the studio? So what if I didn't feel like seeing my boyfriend?

I stuffed my phone in my knapsack.

My solo in Act One was my most important solo in the ballet and it might be the most important solo of my career. Even if I didn't fuck up, even if it went well, that didn't change the fact that everybody was there to see Harry, not me. I had to be twice as good just to be noticed. There were no guarantees with this job. I might never get the chance to dance the iconic part of Prince Siegfried again. I had to make my mark. I had to be perfect.

When Maurice scheduled an extra rehearsal to work on the solo in the auditorium, I was thrilled. The more time I had to work with him the better.

I stretched on the cool, scuffed stage floor before stripping to my tights. The lights above me were hot and bright. I couldn't see the seats in the auditorium, which was a good thing. I could pretend I was performing for an audience. Maurice was in the orchestra giving the pianist some instruction. He climbed onstage to join me. I extended my hand and helped him up.

"Thank you, Louis." He dusted himself off and adjusted the collar on his billowy purple blouse, half open with medieval laces down the front. He always looked vaguely like he was in costume. If this was what the man wore to rehearsal I wondered what he would wear opening night!

"You look dashing tonight, Maurice."

He fluffed his white pompadour. "Oh, you."

His poodle Bijou ran circles around my ankles. I picked her up and kissed her wet nose. "And you! Are you dancing with me?" She squirmed. I set her back down and watched her leap into the wings.

I stood center stage with my arms above my head. As the music started and I began to move across the stage, Maurice stopped me right away. He didn't issue a correction but a slight tweak to the choreography.

I didn't mind making the adjustment but I was a bit irked that it was happening so close to dress rehearsal. I wanted to be polishing and perfecting what I'd already learned, not absorbing new movement.

It wasn't just one part either. It was the tone of the whole piece. Maurice got behind me and mirrored the tempo and transitions. I looked at him quizzically and he turned away, avoiding my gaze. He was usually quite jovial but now he was serious. There was no playful teasing, no praise, no funny Swiss Maurice-isms I'd grown to love over the past few months.

I took his notes and danced. I was fighting the muscle memory from the choreography I'd learned previously. It was like struggling against a strong wind.

I repeated the solo again and again but couldn't get the hang of the new choreography. This was a nightmare! I leaned over my knees and grunted with frustration. There was a disconnect between my body and the music. I was lost in the choreography, untethered. The count was off. I was no longer dancing to the music but inside it...

A chill went down my spine.

My head snapped up to the back of the theatre where a lithe figure stood in the shadows watching me.

I ended the rehearsal early, my heart pounding with rage. Maurice folded his hands in front of himself demurely. He knew that I knew and was too embarrassed to admit it.

When I was finished, I didn't exchange pleasantries with Maurice or thank the pianist for his time. I didn't even pull on my joggers. I marched straight to the studio to find Harry.

The room was dim. Only half of the overhead lights were on. He wasn't rehearsing. He was waiting for me.

He was in white—white tights and a white tank, his loose, feminine curls arranged artfully on his porcelain shoulders. Innocently, he smoothed a hand along the barre. If I didn't know better I'd think he was an angel. He wasn't tired or sweaty, probably because he spent the last hour doing nothing but watching me in the auditorium.

I wiped the sweat from my brow. "I suppose you think this is funny? Fucking with my solo? Fucking with my career?"

He crossed his arms and eyed my body appraisingly. "You look good doing my choreography."

I moved toward him, my slippers hissing over the vinyl flooring. "We're weeks away from dress rehearsal."

"So?" He shrugged, his green eyes steady.

"I don't have time for your games! I was worried enough about getting this performance right and now I have to worry about learning new choreography too! I'm not like you. I'm not some world famous prodigy. I could lose everything I've worked for in an instant. There are a hundred dancers dying to take my place. Do you understand how much pressure I'm under?"

Harry cocked his head and smiled. "I like to watch you struggle."

I slapped him. Hard. Leaving a bright red mark across his pale cheek. He shifted his tender jaw, amused by the pain.

"Tell Kenneth and Maurice that I can go back to doing the old choreography. Admit that you were wrong."

He laughed. "I'm not wrong. You'll dance the solo my way or I'll make sure you don't dance at all."

I lifted my hand to strike him again and he caught my wrist, twisting my arm behind my back in one swift motion and smashing me up against the mirror.

The mirror cracked, slicing our reflection in two.

"I knew you'd put up the hardest fight, Louis. That's why I saved you for last."

When I tried to wriggle free he twisted my arm harder and I yelped with pain. I felt his breath on the back of my neck, hot and quick. His soft laughter returned at my predicament.

"Just say you'll do it, Louis," he panted. "Say you'll dance the solo my way and I'll let you go."

"Never."

He would have to break my fucking arm if he wanted me to submit to him! I pushed back against him with my full weight, my arm screaming with pain. When my body made contact with his, Harry jolted.

He was hard.

We both froze and stared at each other in the mirror.

He was still gripping my arm but otherwise remained motionless.

For the first time in my life I was speechless.

Sweat trickled down my neck and pooled at my collarbone, eventually absorbed by my cotton t-shirt.

Harry's heartbeat thudded against my back.

I glanced at him over my shoulder through heavy lashes. I noted his parted lips, red and moist, freshly licked.

He looked down at our bodies and pressed himself against me. Feeling how big he was through the thin fabric of our tights made me dizzy.

His free hand reached up to my face. He touched my cheek with the back of his hand before letting his fingers trail down the column of my throat. It wasn't the first time he had me by the throat. I didn't know if this was a threat or affection but I threw my head back and purred at his touch. I could feel his excitement mounting. I parted my legs and pressed back against him. He hummed with approval, releasing my arm to place both his hands firmly on my hips.

This was my chance.

Without warning, I flipped around and pinned him against the mirror, facing me. The fine bones of his wrists threatened to snap in my hands like rose stems. His pulse skipped dangerously beneath my fingers and I squeezed his wrists tighter.

His eyes went wide with anger.

"You don't like losing control, do you?" I said.

He flushed. "Let me go."

"You're not going anywhere." I fucking meant it. He was a menace and he was going to stay put until I could figure out what to do with him.

My gaze wandered over his milky complexion and the chiseled contours of his face. His black lashes beat like moths' wings, the green eyes beneath them glassy and yielding. It was his mouth, those surreal plump red lips that really betrayed his lust. There was no hiding what that mouth wanted.

Acting like he wasn't thinking of fucking me mere moments ago, Harry sneered, "My ideas are better than Maurice's. You know it's true. Do my choreography."

"Kiss me."

Harry's chest rose and fell rapidly. "Will you let me change your solo?"

"Maybe."

Oh, how the mighty had fallen!

I had only kissed Harry once in my life, a chaste kiss between teenagers, but it was the most erotic experience of my life, a heady mix of friendship and desire that ruined me for every kiss that came after. Seven years and a dozen relationships later I realized that I must have loved him. It wasn't just teenage infatuation. It was real. Now I was face-to-face with that impossible love again and I was in no way prepared to relive the experience.

His lax curls fell forward and curtained my face. I couldn't resist turning to nuzzle them. His breath on my cheek was sharp and uneven. I faced him, letting my bottom lip gently brush against his. He let out a tiny gasp. Immediately, I released his wrists and wound my arms around his narrow waist. I meant to keep him pinned against that cracked mirror and take his mouth in a rough, punitive kiss. I was still furious after all. But I had too much tenderness for him. As cruel as he was, some greater force inside me said: hold him, be gentle with him.

To my surprise he didn't struggle or sneer. All the tension left his body and he allowed himself to be held. His eyes were wide with hope. Innocence. He was my Harry again. The boy I knew before our fight, before Kiev. The brave boy who had gathered all his courage to kiss me in the rafters.

"My beautiful boy," I cooed. "My favorite dancer."

He smiled shyly. "Am I really your favorite dancer?"

I pressed my forehead to his. "Oh Harry, you're breathtaking when you dance, when you smile, when you laugh, when you cry... even when you hurt me." I swallowed. "You're my favorite everything. You're perfect to me. You always have been." I nosed his cheek and moved to kiss him.

Tears pricked his eyes and he turned his head. "I'm not perfect."

"Harry? Harry?" I said softly. "Hey, what's wrong?" I lifted his hands to my lips.

His body went rigid, his tears stilled. "I'm sorry. I can't do this."

He stepped away from me and my limbs cooled in his absence.

Harry flicked on the remaining studio lights and they blinded me. He carded through the CDs by the stereo like I was invisible, like the conversation we just had never happened.

My heart twisted with hurt and anger. I felt so exposed. I told him everything, things I could barely admit to myself, and he completely shut me out. What did I do wrong? Why won't he talk to me?

He cued up the music in stony silence.

When the music started and he was about to rehearse, he finally acknowledged me.

"I have the studio booked for the night."

"Is that your way of telling me to leave?" I put my hands on my hips.

He glanced at the door expectantly before dipping gracefully into a plié.

I looked at the clock on the wall. It was midnight. I was exhausted.

As Harry danced, I searched the studio floor until I found his sweatshirt. I balled it up into a pillow and lay down.

Harry opened his mouth to say something but I cut him off. "I'm not leaving you."

"I'll be here all night," he said flatly.

"Then I'll stay all night."

He sighed.

The floor was cold and hard, but Harry's sweatshirt was soft. I buried my face in the fabric and breathed in the delicious scent while he moved across the floor. It smelled of lilac and copper and...

"Are you sniffing my sweater?"

"No!"

I was torn between making him talk to me, and watching him dance. I went with the latter. Not by choice. He was hypnotizing, fearless in his movements, giving his body over so completely that it was like a god was in possession of these limbs and not a mortal man. Even when he was young and his technique was terrible, he was still artful. There had always been some part deep inside of him longing to be expressed. And now that his longing was married to technique, he was magnificent.

I dozed off before he was done. Late into the night I heard the lights click off. With my eyes still closed, I made a move to get up but Harry stopped me.

"Go back to sleep." He drew a blanket over me and carefully slipped a pillow beneath my head.

He slept in the studio often enough that he brought a blanket and pillow with him. I don't know why this made me so sad but it did.

Then he got underneath the blanket with me and tucked us in. He was relaxed in the dark and sweetly concerned for my comfort. My eyes adjusted to the darkness and I stared at the lovely shadowed planes of his face.

Please kiss me, I thought. Please, please, please.

He moved into me, but it wasn't to kiss me. Instead, he nudged me onto my side. "Go back to sleep," he repeated.

My eyes fluttered shut and he slipped a hand up the back of my shirt. My stomach leapt. Gently, he began to stroke my back, the way we did to each other when we were boys and too shy to do anything else. His fingers started at the nape of my neck and moved down my spine in a tantalizing circular motion.

"Harry," I mewed.

Half asleep I heard him whisper, "I'm not perfect, Louis, but you are."

A/N: Why do you think Harry got so emotional when Louis called him perfect?

Yep, Bijou is the only one who gets a kiss in this chapter. But things are taking a turn for the better. The next "present" chapter picks up right where this one leaves off, with H&L waking up together in the studio.

Next up is the last "past" chapter.

Here's the Prince Siegfried solo that Harry wants to fuck with (among other things...)

https://youtu.be/zdwkc8QUKMw