A/N: This is Harry's first summer at Warwick. It takes place after the last chapter, XXVII, but before the epilogue.

"Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influence of the earth."

―Henry David Thoreau, Walden

It was summer and Warwick was in full bloom.

Barren vines, wilted bluebells and fruitless apricot trees roused from their slumber in the spring and ripened upon Harry's arrival early June. Gone too was the raucous laughter of men. The house was instead filled with the melody of female voices. Eleanor was being fitted for her wedding gown. Though the wedding was months away the event was so lavish they had already decided on the guest list, invitations, music, menu, and commissioned a portrait, which was to be painted by England's most renowned artist, John Everett Millais. Louis spared no expense.    

Harry and Louis were to go to the riverbank that afternoon but the Duke was occupied in his office with a merchant who was importing a selection of rare truffles from around the world for the occasion.

Harry's own wedding was fast approaching, though it would be a modest affair with few guests. He came from a small family with almost no acquaintances. He didn't begrudge Louis his popularity, quite the contrary. The thought of hosting such a grand event terrified him.    

He wandered the sunlit halls with his hands behind his back, following the sound of female voices, and peeked through the doors of the solarium.

"Out! Out! Out!" The seamstress fussed. "No gentlemen allowed!"

"Let him in," he heard Eleanor say. "I want to hear his opinion." She was standing on a riser before a gilded mirror with various fabrics pinned to her slip. Her younger sisters were running around with veils on their heads.

"What do you think, Harry, taffeta or lace?"

He saw that she was clutching the lace a little more tightly than the taffeta and reaffirmed her own opinion. "Lace."

She smiled. "You know, I think you're right!"

The seamstress shoved a pincushion in his hands. "If you insist on staying, make yourself useful."

Harry followed the seamstress around with the pincushion as she adjusted the bodice and hem. Eleanor's little sister, Ruth, place a veil on his head and they all temporarily forgot that he was a boy.

"I wonder what it's like to be deflowered by a Duke," Eleanor's middle sister, Mary, mused on the divan twirling her long dark tresses.

Harry froze. He and Eleanor exchanged a look in the mirror.

Her older more cynical sister, Penelope, said, "A man of his wealth and status doesn't deflower a woman he ravages her. I'm sure he's a brute."

"And I'm sure he's tender," Mary sniffed.

Ruth's lip quivered. "Oh dear, I hope he's tender, Ellie!"

"Enough!" the seamstress scolded. "Relations between a husband and wife are sacred, not parlour talk."

One of the girls peeked at the unfinished wedding portrait until the drape fell to the floor.

"Mary!"

Harry looked upon the portrait. The likeness was incredible, with vibrant colours and seamless brushwork, their complexions smooth as porcelain. Louis looked like a devoted husband and Eleanor a regal wife. It would hang in the library beside the portraits of his parents and ancestors dating back to the Battle of Bosworth.

When Louis was gone, this is how he would be remembered. This is the version of him that would survive.

Suddenly, Louis popped his head in the solarium. "Shall we, Harry?" He smirked. "Nice veil."

The girls screamed. "You're not supposed to see her! It's bad luck!"

"Get back you brute!" The little one said with her fist in the air.

They pummelled him with pillows until he retreated.

"Egad!"

He wasn't wearing a jacket, only a billowy white shirt with a satchel strapped across his chest. Harry removed his jacket as well and handed it to Charles at the door.

"We'll be back after sundown. We're going for a swim."

His testy valet shook the jacket and folded it over his arm. "I'm afraid not. I didn't pack a swimming costume, your grace." 

Louis threw an arm around Harry's shoulder and winked. "He won't need one."

"I'm swimming in the nude!" Harry clarified unnecessarily.

Before Charles could protest, they tore out of the house toward the forest.

"Race you!" Louis said, and broke into a run, the leather satchel swinging heavily on his hip.

Harry chased after him but he wasn't nearly as fast and struggled to keep up as Louis intuitively weaved among trees and hopped over rocks. He knew the forest so well he could run through it blindfolded.

Raised with rowdy older brothers, Louis was as wild as the forest itself. Harry was raised alone and too prim for such games. 

The river was in earshot. They ran past the spot where Albertine was slain. The mare's body was gone, and in its place sprung a patch of poppies, as though the earth absorbed her blood and her spirit bloomed in its breast.

By the time they reached the clearing Harry was so out of breath he fell to his knees panting.

Louis yanked off his boots and tore off his clothes.

The place was even more beautiful than Harry remembered. The autumn did not do it justice. The height and fullness of the trees, the variety of wildflowers, lush grass, crystal clear water—nature was more lavish and grand than any party man could devise.   

Slowly, Harry began to undo the buttons on his shirt. He looked around. They were alone, yet he felt exposed. 

Louis stripped down to nothing. Seeing his golden limbs naked outside the privacy of the bedchamber felt like seeing them for the very first time. He could see the crisp outline of his thighs, his torso, his manhood. He was at once more vulnerable and strong. 

He walked into the river with his back to Harry, the ripple of muscles moving as assuredly as the waters in which he was now submerged.

He went under and Harry held his breath. The Duke re-emerged and slicked his hair back. Beads of water hung from his long lashes like diamonds. 

"Get in!" he called. "The water's lovely."

Harry sat down on the riverbank and hugged his knees. It was moments like these he wished he was a different sort of boy. Not the coin-collecting, pincushion-holding type, but someone like Louis, who knew how to race, someone with a temperament that was wild and free.

"I'm afraid I don't have the nerve after all," he said, disappointed in himself. "I'll watch you from afar."

"Harry, I'm going underwater and I won't come up for air until you're right here next to me."

Harry refused.

"One, two, three..." Louis went under.

Bubbles rose to the surface and then stopped.

Several moments passed. 

Harry hopped to his feet. Louis wasn't coming up for air. Was he crazy enough to drown himself to get Harry to take his clothes off? Probably.

Harry stripped. The ivory skin beneath his clothes had never seen the light of day and instantly warmed to a blush.

Louis lied. The water was not lovely. It was freezing. And there were rocks and plants on the riverbed that felt strange against the pads of his feet. He slowly crept over to where Louis dove under and felt around frantically with his hands. "Louis! Louis! I'm in! Come up!"   

He was gone.

Though, not dead.

The Duke had swum was yards away and was watching Harry from behind a rock.

"I thought you drowned!" Harry snapped.

Louis swam over and then circled his arms around Harry's waist. Water lapped between their chests.

"I'm alive. Kiss me."

Harry couldn't stay mad at him for long and leaned in. As their lips met Louis plunged them into the icy water.

Harry came up floundering and gasping for air. Louis slicked the sopping wet hair off of his face and kissed him in earnest. Weightless in the water and not wanting his feet to touch the bottom, Harry wrapped his long legs around the Duke's torso and clasped the back of his neck. His body had slowly acclimatized to the cold but he couldn't resist the warmth of Louis' body. 

"Swim with me."

Louis untangled himself from Harry's grip and glided into the current, arms slicing the water with each stroke. Harry splashed after him. He couldn't swim and looked ungraceful trying. 

The Duke taught him to float, and to tread water. He slipped his hands beneath Harry's belly as he kicked his feet and practiced his free stroke. Soon they were swimming side-by-side. Harry quickly learned that the harder he splashed the slower he swam and tried to match Louis' smooth, economical stroke.

When they tired, they climbed back up on the riverbank to sun themselves. Louis let Harry get out first so he could watch him. Harry tiptoed over to his pile of clothing when he noticed the Duke stretch out face down naked on a patch of grass. He dropped his clothes and stretched out beside him.

Flecks of grass stuck to the pads of his pink feet and pale limbs. He moved his legs like he did in the water, practicing his kick. This made Louis smile.

He dug into his satchel and took out bread and cheese wrapped in parchment. His hand rustled around until he found some fruit. He offered Harry an apricot. The young Duke took a few furtive bites. Louis was famished. He devoured the fruit, apricot juice running down his chin and dripping onto his golden chest.

Harry lay back down, resting his cheek on his folded arms. "The Calder girls were talking about your wedding night. They wondered what it's like to be deflowered by a Duke."

Louis grinned and took another bite of the ripened apricot. 

"One thought you would be tender, the other says you're a brute."

"And what do you think?"

Harry threaded his fingers through the grass and answered coyly, "I haven't decided yet."

Louis plucked a honeysuckle from the grass and trailed it down the length of Harry's spine. "You're white as dove," he marvelled, the sensation of the petals like Louis' lips upon his damp skin. "Let me show you how tender I can be."

Wind rustled through the trees and Harry glanced over his shoulder. "If someone stumbles upon us in the nude, we can tell them we were swimming, if they stumble upon us while we're..."

"This is my land. No one would dare trespass."

He continued caressing him with the flower, coaxing his little dove. Harry muscles eased. He could feel wetness growing between him and the grass at the mere thought of Louis' lips upon him.

Louis brought the flower to the back of Harry's thigh. "Your skin smells fresh as river water and sweet as this very honeysuckle," he breathed. 

Harry parted his legs, beckoning him.

"So, am I a brute or am I tender?"

"Tender," Harry murmured into the grass.

Louis leaned over but before his lips brushed Harry's flesh he stopped and said, "You're spoiled."

"No, I'm not!" He thought he might actually cry if he did not feel Louis' lips upon him, which was probably Louis' goal all along. He really was a brute. Damn him.

Louis grinned and slid a hand down Harry's flank to his pale bottom.

Harry arched his back and purred at the Duke's touch. Then he felt it, as hot and bright as the sun itself. First Louis' breath and then his lips, still wet with apricot juice. Harry fisted the grass and spread wider as Louis kissed and lapped hungrily at his opening until it was supple and pink and ready to be taken.

Louis usually liked to mount him from behind. He liked seeing Harry submit and spread. He liked hearing the song of his muffled sobs. Harry enjoyed this roughness too. It made him feel wildly desirable. However, on this particular afternoon, Louis was feeling sentimental. He turned Harry onto his back and faced him. Perhaps it was because this was the place they first kissed, the place Louis gave Harry his pin, the place where they pledged themselves to one another.

He kissed Harry's neck, his chest, and nosed his hip as the young Duke ran his fingers lazily through his lover's wet hair. Louis really was sentimental. It was moments like these Harry knew for certain that he wasn't just any other lover. Louis, like Harry, wanted to stop time. Day by day they were getting older. One day they would lose their beauty and then their lives and instead of lying beside each other, they would lie beside their ancestors in the earth. Every moment together was as fleeting and fragile as the honeysuckles crushed beneath their weight.

Harry couldn't wait any longer and guided Louis' length toward him.

The Duke reached for the vial of oil in his satchel.

Though Harry had arrived at Warwick the day before, he was tired from his long journey north. Louis pleasured him with his mouth and let him rest but was waiting for the moment when Harry would invite him to mount.    

Their hips aligned. Louis breached him ever so slowly, savouring each second of Harry opening around him.

Harry cried softly onto his shoulder. 

As Louis inched into him, the young Duke clawed at his back overwhelmed at being opened and yet desperate for him to go deeper. "Deeper, deeper," he pleaded, widening his thighs.

Louis' mouth was resting against Harry's ear now, panting, like his pleasure was a secret meant only for him.

"It's been months since I last had you. I must be careful."

They rocked together on the grass, the swell of Harry's manhood pressed between them. When Harry came too close Louis would stop and wait for his excitement to subside before entering him again, deeper, faster, bringing him to the precipice and slowing again. When Louis came too close, Harry would bite his bottom lip teasingly.

Soon Harry could not discern river water from sweat on Louis' neck. He was exhausted. "Spill inside of me," Harry urged, gripping his back. "You need release." 

Louis fought his own desire. He did not want this moment to end. "A little longer. You feel like heaven."

So did Louis.

Harry licked a droplet of sweat off his neck. His hands wandered down the smooth valley of Louis' back until he reached the cleft of his bottom. He gave it a squeeze. Arousing. On impulse, he slipped a finger inside. Louis drew a sharp breath and nearly spilled.

"Minx!" He pinned Harry's hands to the ground. 

Now he was not so gentle. Louis thrust inside him and the young Duke cried out, his own wetness seeping deliciously onto his taut belly.

Harry's legs fell open. He lifted his head and watched the Duke inside him. The sight was so erotic all it took was one more thrust and Harry came undone. Shaking. Sobbing. Louis moved through Harry's pleasure until the young Duke stopped trembling.

When it was Louis' turn, he kissed Harry on the mouth. Harry watched his eyelashes flutter, heard the hitch in his breath, felt the familiar jolt of his body, and then euphoria as Louis filled him and collapsed with a sigh.

There was an ease and naturalness to making love outdoors that Harry had not anticipated. No basin or cloth was required, no bedding, no laundering. He was covered in sweat and seed, but could quickly jump in the river and be cleansed in an instant.

First, he let Louis proudly admire his work. Harry's damp curls stuck to his rosy cheeks. He touched the stickiness on his belly and bent his knee as Louis' seed seeped out of him onto the grass. 

Louis examined the marks of their lovemaking, thoroughly pleased with himself. He could not take his eyes off the boy, and... neither could someone else. There was a rustling in the trees that was most definitely not the wind.

Louis crouched down and concealed Harry behind his back. "Who's there?"

The trees rustled again.

"Who's there? Show yourself!"

The brush parted.

Hesitantly, a young man appeared. A villager with a worn cap and patched trousers. He was holding something but Harry could not see what it was among the foliage.

"I didn't see anything," he said, voice quivering, which meant he saw everything.

Louis wasn't ashamed, he was furious. "How dare you trespass here. Do you know where you are?"

The man removed his cap and twisted it in his hands. He was petrified. "I only came to paint." the objects under his arm were an easel and brushes. "This part of the riverbank is the most scenic spot in the region, your grace. I wanted to share a piece of beauty with those who have none."

Louis was too proud to hide his nakedness or make excuses for what the man may or may not have seen. "Leave. Never speak of what you saw here today, understood?"

The man nodded vigorously and stumbled with his canvas.

"Wait!" Harry said peeking over Louis shoulder. The man stopped but kept his head down and did not look at them. He was handsome with a trimmed beard and a thatch of black hair tucked behind his ears. He was embarrassed but there was no malice in his demeanour.

"You're a painter."

"Yes, your grace."

"Perhaps..." It sounded mad in his head and even more so when he spoke the words aloud but he knew he might never have an opportunity like this again. "You could paint us?"

Louis whipped his head around. "What!"

The man's eyes widened and he lifted a hand in protest. "No, no, no! I paint landscapes!"

Harry brushed a thumb across Louis' bottom lip. "A man is not much different from a rose. Besides, it doesn't have to be perfect it just has to be... us."

Louis stared at him, incredulous. "Merely an hour ago you refused to remove your clothes to go for a swim and now you want this stranger to paint us in the nude?"

Harry drew his knees up to his chest. The painter pretended to busy himself with his palette and brushes while they discussed it.

"You will have your wedding portrait with Eleanor, I will have mine with Beth, yet you and I will have nothing but cryptic letters. A pin. A coin. Our love will be lost to history, the truth of who we are buried with our bodies."

Louis shrugged. "We'll be dead then, what will it matter."

Louis would never understand. He lived for the moment. He wasn't a collector like Harry, a steward of history.

"WE matter. I want our love to be recorded. To live on in some earthly form when we're gone."

Though Louis preferred to make love and eat apricots all afternoon than sit for a portrait, he could never refuse Harry. The young Duke was too dear to him and most definitely spoiled.

Much to the painter's surprise, Louis agreed.

The two dukes dashed into the river to rinse off their bodies while the painter anxiously set up his easel.  

They stumbled out of the water laughing, wet bodies dripping on the grass, Louis shaking his hair like a dog.

Harry kneeled down by Louis' satchel and offered the painter an apricot. The man, whose name they learned was Basel, reached for it then politely declined, trying to look anywhere but directly at the young Duke's glistening body, which was now near enough to touch.

"What is the subject?" the painter asked stiffly.

"Greek," Harry and Louis said in unison. The painter blushed, well aware of the unspeakable vice of the Greeks.

"Apollo and his young lover Cyparissus," Harry added, "who, in his grief at the death of his beloved stag, is transformed into a tree."

The painter mixed together pigments on his palette. "A wise choice, your grace. You will be perfect as the beautiful youth Cyparissus," then quickly added, "If you don't mind my saying so."

Harry lay down and pretended to be grief-stricken while Louis posed as the swift-footed Apollo beside him. Basel had worked with few live models and it took time to find the right angles.

He instructed Harry to recline on one arm, "Lovely," arch his back, "Exquisite," and part his lips, "Like you did earlier."

Louis narrowed his eyes. "Exactly how long were you watching us, Basel?"

The painter shifted his attention back to the canvas.

There was a space in the landscape he had already begun for both of figures. It was as though the painting was waiting for them to enter it.

He worked carefully, the sun beating down on his heavy brow, his brushstrokes long and laboured.

Louis' body shaded Harry's ivory skin from the sun. He fed him fruit, chatted to entertain him and stole a kiss every chance he got. They sometimes forgot Basel was even there until he cleared his throat to remind them.

The painting wasn't completely finished by the time the sun went down but near enough that Basel was confident he could complete it on his own.

Harry and Louis pulled on their shirts and breeches, and peered over Basel's shoulder at the canvas. The likeness wasn't exact--Basel was no John Everett Millais--but there were flashes of brilliance in his lines and composition. Most importantly, he had captured their devotion to one another perfectly. Harry's green eyes pricked with tears. Louis was speechless and reached out to touch Harry's painted skin.

Basel stopped him. "The paint is still fresh." He did not care for allegory or portraiture but even he was impressed by his own work. "What shall I do with it? Shall I have it wrapped when it is complete and send it to you?"

Harry clasped his shoulder. "No, if we keep it, we'll have to hide it away. Find a gallery that will display it."

Swinging his satchel, Louis said, "I think it should be called 'Apollo's Conquest.'"

"That doesn't make any sense," Harry bickered. "The story is about the grief of Cyparissus."

"This is supposed to be a record of love. You're not grieving."

"I'm not a conquest either," Harry snapped, looking to Basel for an ally. 

Basel wrung his paint-stained hands. "I'm sorry if I misled you, your grace, but I am a hobbyist, not a classically trained painter. I sell my work to sailors by the pier every summer. They're trinkets, nothing more. No gallery has ever bought a painting from me."

"We believe in your work, Basel," Harry said, admiring the painting, the mirror of his feeling for Louis. "Art finds a way to survive, even if we don't." 

Harry daydreamed about where the painting might end up hundreds of years from now. Perhaps it would find itself in the hands of a collector just like him, someone who would stare at their faces the way Harry examined the obverse of his coins, knowing that he possessed something precious and rare.  

The sun was setting over the treetops. It was time to head back to the manor for supper and entertain Eleanor's precocious sisters.

As Basel packed his palette and the last of his brushes, he turned to Louis and tipped his cap, "Congratulations on your blessed union, your grace."

The Duke thanked him. It was common knowledge throughout the village that Louis was marrying Lady Calder. Villagers were preparing their own modest festivities to celebrate. 

The two Dukes walked back to the manor, Louis uncharacteristically quiet and too tired to outrun him. He kicked the dirt beneath his boots.

"That painter had eyes for you," he said finally.

Harry burst out laughing. "Me? You're mad."

"'Congratulations on your blessed union'?"

"He meant your marriage."

"He meant you."

Louis was the one with countless admirers swirling around him, not Harry. He dismissed the compliment as a simple misunderstanding.

"He was watching us. I know it," Louis went on.

"Basel meant no harm. If he saw anything, I'm sure he did the noble thing and looked away."

"Impossible. You're beautiful when you're being taken... It's the loveliest sight I've ever seen."  

The young Duke felt his ears turn pink. It had never occurred to him that other men might desire him the way Louis did.

After a pause, Louis asked, "Did you find him handsome?"

"Well, he certainly is a very talented painter," Harry answered diplomatically.

"You know what I think?" he whispered, lips pressed to Harry's ear. "I think you liked being watched by the handsome painter."

Harry picked up a switch and whipped Louis on the backside. "Brute!"

They stomped headlong into the house, tracking mud on the rug and tossing the satchel on the divan in the drawing room, much to Teddy's dismay.

On Louis' bureau sat a mountain of letters. At Somerset, Harry answered all of his correspondence daily. Louis usually plucked the ones from Harry out of the pile and procrastinated when it came to reading the rest. Harry flipped through the stack. There were many invitations to parties and announcements.

One letter on the top of the stack stood out to him immediately. "This one's from Roy!"

It had arrived that morning. Louis grabbed the gold penknife from the bureau and opened the envelope with a single slice.

His blue eyes scanned the page and twinkled at the words of his old friend.

"He and Frederick are summering in Pembroke. They've invited us to join them."

A/N: Annnnnnd we're off to Pembroke to see F&R. Yes, I'm writing THAT chapter. Thoughts and prayers welcome.

Did Basel the painter have a crush on Harry?

Do you think Louis is tender or a brute?

The painting mentioned in this chapter is imagined but I was inspired by the painting of Apollo and Cyparissus I used in chapter XXI, painted by Claude-Marie-Paul Dubufe a few decades earlier. (I also compared Louis to the Pythian Apollo in chapter XXVI.) And, though a stag doesn't die in this story, their beloved Bertie does, so I thought it was a good fit.