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Jeff accompanied him to the theater on the first morning of rehearsals. This wasn’t unusual, if Jeff was in town while Harry was working, he’d often come along. They’d dine together in Harry’s dressing room or make a trip out to a café if the afternoon break was long enough. But it rankled Harry today, to see Jeff sitting across from him in the carriage, relaxed against the cushions, his thighs spread slightly, and gazing out the window with a placid smile on his face as though nothing was out of the ordinary. Never mind the fact that they’d had one last argument before they left this morning, Harry spitting out all of the lines he’d saved up, waiting to let loose in person. But Jeff hadn’t faltered, he’d deflected each attack, and then ushered Harry into the carriage. “You’re here,” he’d said, “and it’s time to go. We can talk again after rehearsals are over this afternoon, but I promise that this show is perfect for you.” Huffing, Harry crossed his legs, tangling a restless hand in his hair, wrapping it around itself into a loose, unkempt knot.

Sun streamed in through the windows and Harry glanced out, wrenching his eyes away from Jeff. The flashing sites were so familiar, as was the clarion lilt of people speaking Italian, expressive and elongated, yet lightening fast, filtering into his ears. It undulated as they passed the docks, workmen launching crates at each other along with their cries, refrains of shipments and numbers a triumphant, cacophonous chorus. Peddlers wound their way through their list of wares, voices circling up and around, vibrating with anticipation as people approached them. The successful ones trilled their thanks, while their competitors cursed, their frustration a harsh refrain. Nowhere else in the world sounded like Naples—its cadences and crescendos mimicking the grounded, explosive potential of Vesuvius. London was all bark; harsh, clipped words. Paris was an incessant twitter of tongues, and Berlin, with its gruff, scraping growls, was even worse.

Harry’s heart ached at hearing and understanding the snippets that floated in. Words and emotions immediately registered instead of jangling, loud and unparsed, unable to be translated. Suddenly his loneliness in London was achingly clear, even his ears had been deprived of hearing, understanding what was happening in the world around him. But, was it better to be here, to know and to be known? In Naples his name and story, the dirty, intimate details of his past, could not be erased by the sound of his voice, the sweep of his skirt, or the slow curve of his most seductive smile.

Harry leaned his forehead against the window for a moment, his jaw clattering with the shaky vibrations. The horses swerved a little, to avoid a cart that stopped suddenly in their path, and Harry’s head banged against the thick glass. Cursing, and rubbing his temple, Harry laid it on the plush cushion instead. He knows he’d been petulant in putting off his travel arrangements until the last moment, and now only he is suffering. Jeff has been back for two weeks, and while Harry slept for ages last night in his massive, soft bed, one good night’s rest after a fortnight of tiresome travel was certainly insufficient. His voice was fine, though. He’d warmed up a little this morning before joining Jeff for some pastries and coffee. Rehearsal wasn’t supposed to go past midafternoon, anyway, so he wasn’t concerned about it tiring out.

Soon they arrived at the theater, and Jeff sprung back to life. He jumped out of the carriage and immediately began talking with the people who were milling about by the door. Harry descended as well, taking the hand that was offered to him, but the wooden steps they had provided were unsteady, and he slipped, losing his balance. Suddenly second pair of hands grasped his other arm. Harry righted himself and stepped fully onto the ground. Jeff had paused, but once he saw Harry standing on firm ground, he resumed his rapid-fire conversation. Harry looked over to see who had kept him from falling, and was met with two bright blue eyes, searing with an intensity that startled him.

“Thank you,” Harry said, stepping further away from the carriage, and brushing his over both of his sleeves.

“It was my pleasure,” the man murmured, his Italian smooth and natural, but lacking the sunny, southern sound of a Neapolitan.

Harry took him in with a glance, serviceable shoes, utilitarian clothes, a pale, pleasing face with a brow that looked like it was made for furrowing. He thought he might be one of the musicians, perhaps a cellist. He could be a possibility, but once Harry decides to forgive Jeff he’ll probably be preoccupied with him for a while, instead of searching for new lovers. But still, it’s worth noting.

“I think I need to go inside now, but thank you again,” Harry said, blinking slowly as he gave the man a final, wandering look of distant appreciation. He walked over to Jeff and they made their way inside. Harry pondered the man’s eyes again as he scraped the mud off his boots, tapping his heel against the bristles a few more times than necessary. Jeff put his hand on the small of Harry’s back as they made their way towards the stage, and Harry felt the weight through his coat, thumb digging in a little as he guided them around a corner. Jeff showed him the dressing room briefly, but they had to go straight to the stage to meet Niall, the maestro who had somehow convinced Jeff to wrench him from his comfortable life in Paris and drag him all the way back across the continent to Naples.

Harry had been so incensed by Jeff’s determination for him to return that he had not exerted effort into finding anything out about Niall. Jeff had given him no details, only that his music was meant for Harry to sing. On his final night in London, Kendall had taken him out to a dinner party. During the cheese course one of the guests mentioned something about Niall, saying that he was apparently very young. He hadn’t said anything else, though, and Harry had gotten distracted by Kendall running her hand up and down his inner thighs. Now that Harry was here, being marched down the corridors with Jeff an insistent presence at his side, he regretted his lack of preparation. Who was Niall going to be? What would he expect from Harry? How young was he actually—not very many young composers were able to attract Jeff’s attention, and with it recruit the most celebrated voice of the decade, if not century.

Harry was starting to spin a bit, in his mind, toying absently with the thick rings on his fingers, when a door swung open in front of him and he stepped out onto the stage, his footsteps suddenly echoing in the space. The room was fully lit, the rows of empty seats stretching out in front of him, around him, above him. Harry inhaled softly, nostrils flaring as he took it in. The guilt, the paintings, the candles flickering in elaborate brass sconces that gleamed and reflected the light like mirrors. It was beautiful. Already he felt the zing in his spine, his shoulders spread a little further, his head lifted a little higher. This stage was everything he’d imagined it would be, when he sat in the audience as a little boy who loved to sing, or as a teenager who lived to sing.

“Niall, it’s good to see you,” he heard Jeff say, and Harry turned, eyes drifting back down to the stage, to the man in front of him. It was the man from earlier, who’d caught him from falling. He smiled and stepped forward to shake his hand, and Harry’s palm enveloped his, fingers wrapping around in a gentle, but firm clasp.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Harry. Jeff has told me so much about you, and I am looking forward to working with you.”

“Hello,” Harry said, mind reeling to recalculate his assessment of Niall from earlier. Harry still couldn’t place his accent, and he wasn’t a cellist, he was the composer who had earned Jeff’s patronage. “You’re Niall? I didn’t realize.”

Niall shuffled back a little, wringing his hands. “Yes I’m, I should’ve introduced myself earlier, I apologize.”

“I see,” Harry said, his head fuzzy and tired, and wondering why was he here after traveling non-stop for two weeks to meet with a maestro who was barely out of puberty. “What do you want me to do? Where’s my music?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I left it down on the harpsichord, I thought you might want to sit down and talk a little bit before beginning rehearsal.”

“No thank you,” Harry sniffed. He could see Jeff rolling his eyes at him, but he didn’t care. He turned his unimpressed stare back to Niall. “I would prefer to just get this over with. I’ll sing, you can make your alterations, and then we can move on with our lives and prepare for this show to open. I have many things to attend to.”

“Preparations, other than rehearsing, you mean?” Niall asked, his eyes slowly beginning to lose their polite sheen.

“Certainly. I have been absent from Naples for quite some time. I have numerous, pressing social obligations now that I’ve returned.”

“I see,” Niall said. “Well in that case I will grab your music and we shall begin.”

Harry nodded curtly as Niall turned and hopped straight down into the pit, instead of descending the stairs. He heard a faint expletive as Niall landed, and then Jeff coughed loudly behind him.

“Harry, really?” he admonished. “Why are you being so difficult about this?”

Harry’s irritation increased, stretching taught like a bowstring, and then he snapped. “Just fucking leave, Jeff. You got me here, you win. But go away. I don’t want to see you right now.”

“Harry, stop being so unreasonable. I know you’re tired, but you’re behaving like a—”

“Like a what, Jeff?”

Jeff squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled. “Like a child,” he said, slowly, eyes opening and instantly apologetic.

“Fuck you,” Harry spat. Jeff winced and took a step back. “Harry I’m sorry.”

“Please go away,” Harry said, voice trembling a little. “I will sing, Jeff. But I don’t want you here.”

Jeff nodded. “The carriage will wait for you, and I’ll see you at home for supper. Is that alright with you?”

“Fine,” Harry said, turning away towards the sound of Niall climbing back out of the pit. He was carrying the score, along with an ornately carved, wooden music stand as well, hefting it up along the ladder with him. He managed to lever it up onto the stage and push it along the floor until it was securely balanced, before he swung himself up and out, wincing a little as he landed. Niall grabbed the music stand and stood, walking over towards the center of the stage and depositing the stand and the music.

“Niall, I’ve some business to attend to this morning, but I will catch up with you tomorrow, alright?” Jeff said, smoothly moving towards the door. Niall spun to look at him, brow furrowed.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yes, he is.” Harry said behind him, and Niall spun back around, looking a little bit dizzy.

“Will it be just the two of us then?” Harry asked, eyebrow arched condescendingly.

“Yes, just the two of us. The rest of the musicians are set to arrive next week.”

“Well then, let’s begin.”

Niall nodded and turned again, heading back to the pit. He didn’t jump this time but climbed slowly down the ladder to take his seat. The pit was fully open today, and Harry could see the harpsichord at an angle. When Niall sat down, he was entirely visible. He had pushed the cuffs of his sleeves further up, revealing wiry forearms covered in a dusting of fair hair that glinted a little in the candlelight. Niall opened his score and glanced over at Harry, indicating for him to do the same. As Harry unfolded the papers, he saw Niall slip his shoes off, sliding his stockinged feet onto the pedals. Harry sniffed at that, finding it utterly unrefined. What difference would a little bit of leather make in operating the pedals?

“Ready?” Niall asked, voice low and firm. Harry looked at him over the music, eyes narrowing to account for the low light in the pit.

“Yes. You may begin.”

Niall inclined his head in a mocking gesture and did just that, fingers flying over the keys as they passed through the introductory flourishes. His arpeggiation and trills were as standard and utilitarian as his clothes, and Harry rolled his eyes, cocking his hip to wait until he was supposed to come in. He eyed the first few measures of his part, but they were scribbled at the bottom of the page, and he didn’t bother flipping it. Harry couldn’t recall the last time he’d had difficulty sight reading. At the very least he’d land on a melody even better than what had originally been written, so he zoned out, listening to the rise and fall of the music, each chord proceeding as expected, until it was only a few measures away from his entrance. Harry straightened his posture and inhaled, feeling his lungs slowly expand with air until it was in his eyeballs and he paused, teetering on an explosive fullness of breath. And then, just as Niall’s fingers landed on an anticipatory amalgamation of notes, Harry was off, his voice bursting out of his chest.

Harry flipped the page lackadaisically and continued with his melody until suddenly it felt like he was tripping, a rug being wrenched out from under him. His eyes and his throat were out of sync and flopping onto notes that should be bounced across. His tongue felt like a wet fish, and he snapped his mouth shut just as Niall picked his fingers up off the keys.

“Shall we go back to your entrance?” Niall asked, face betraying no acknowledgement of Harry’s flub.”

Harry’s face flamed, and he nodded, refusing to say a word. Niall looked at him and breathed in slightly as Harry did, his fingers precise as they struck right as Harry began to sing. Harry’s eyes were glued to the page this time, scanning ahead as he ran through a series of triplets, looking forward to the run that had thrown him. He pulled it off fine that time, clinical in his approach, but he didn’t want to let his guard down now. They continued like that, Harry aggressively singing the lines, adding angular flourishes and trills in exactly all of the right spots. Niall’s playing was firm and stalwart, but there was a coiled strength to it, as though he were restraining himself from pushing the tempo or leaning too far into the dissonant chords.

Niall asked them to stop two times, taking brief notes on his copy while Harry waited, eyeing his fingernails. Each time they’d begin again, perfectly on sync, barely batting an eyelid. When they were halfway through the pages Niall had given him, Harry reached his first aria. He had a few bars of rest before it began, and as Niall plowed through them Harry inhaled, ready to finally find out what sort of person Niall was.

Harry pushed immediately, taking the run that Niall had sketched out and doubling it, going up an additional octave and winding his way down luxuriously, dallying around with some false cadences before descending the rest of the way. Next, he slowed down, taking the octave jumps that Niall had set up for him with an effortless glide. Niall was keeping up though, barely struggling with Harry’s acrobatics, so he continued, and pushed harder. Note for note, Niall matched him, never once getting out from under him, but running with him, letting him spin out before dragging him back in. The chased each other around and around, until Harry was barely even looking at the page, the notes flying out of his mouth without preparation or pre-consideration. He hit the climax with everything, voice ringing out through the hall as he held the note for what seemed like an eternity, and then a few heartbeats longer, his vibrato fully and shimmering until he trailed off into silence. When the note ended, Harry’s eyes fluttered shut and his breath bounced back into his lungs with a massive inhalation. Niall did not continue playing. Instead the vibrations of Harry’s last note lingered in the air, echoing across the empty room. Harry slowly opened his eyes, and Niall was staring at him, his jaw tensed, eyes calculating.

“Alright,” Niall said eventually, turning back to his music.

“Let’s pick it up right after the aria,” Harry said. Niall just nodded and began to play.

It was nearing midnight when Niall heard a knock on his door. He had wrapped up writing a few minutes ago, and after straightening his papers and swallowing the dregs of his wine, he splashed his face with some water from the bowl on his nightstand. Niall grabbed one of the candles from his desk and padded over to the door, his slippers failing to mask the pervading chill of the flagstones beneath his feet. He wondered whether it was the landlord, though it was rather late for that sort of interruption. A bedraggled, shivering Harry was certainly not what he expected to see when opening his door.

“Harry, are you alright?” Niall asked, opening his door wider to usher Harry into his room.

“Are you busy?” Harry asked in response, almost as if he hadn’t heard the question, his eyes darting frantically around the room and never quite landing on Niall’s face.

“No, I was just finishing up for the night. Harry, what’s happened?”

Harry just shook his head. “Do you think you could come with me, to my apartments?”

“Right now?” Niall asked, startled. “It’s just gone midnight. Harry, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing I just, I really need to practice right now. Can you please come to accompany me?” His eyes finally met Niall’s and the crazed gleam had subsided, replaced by pleading.

“Of course. Just give me a minute to get dressed.”

“Can you just grab a coat and your satchel? Please, Niall.”

Niall paused in his turn towards his dresser, looking back at Harry with even more concern in his gaze.

“Sure.” He glanced down at his night clothes, a loose silk shirt and pair of trousers that he had bought with one of his first paychecks after he had moved to Naples. He grabbed his wool coat and slid his feet hurriedly into his shoes. He winced a bit as the shoe pinched tightly around his toes, but Niall didn’t want Harry to wait as he changed into thinner socks that would fit better inside the shoes. Then Niall blew out the candle on his desk, and the one on the table by the door, before opening it again and gesturing for Harry to lead the way.

Niall was distracted as they exited the building, moving cautiously to avoid making too much noise on their way along the hallway and down the stairs to the main entrance. The man who lived next door to him could get very angry when Niall accidently disturbed his sleep. One night, when Niall was getting home late after a show, he had stumbled on the last step and fallen right in front of his neighbor’s door. Gaetano had wrenched open the door and thrown a pewter tankard across the hallway at him while screaming about insolent young musicians.

Niall was only able to take stock of the situation, and of Harry, once they were outside and trudging along the street. His hair was down around his face and seemed rather tangled and mussed in the back. His eyes were puffy and red, and his shoulders were slumped in, simultaneously tense and exhausted, in a way Niall had never seen him carry himself before. They walked in silence, Niall gnawing lightly on his thumbnail, waiting for Harry to say something. He said nothing, though, just walked quickly with his eyes fixed to the road.
As they turned the corner onto Harry’s street a bit of moonlight pierced through the clouds and Niall saw the hints of a bitemark beginning to bloom just under Harry’s jaw. The ruffle of his cravat only concealed half of it, the rest peeking out above the lace, red and angry. Niall’s stomach clenched at the sight, a roiling wave of jealousy and anger rushing through his body.

The thought of Harry with other people always set Niall on edge but seeing him shaken and upset was far worse than any of the smug, self-satisfied displays Harry had made after sleeping with one of his many paramours. Niall thoughts spun, uncertain what to do, or how to potentially engage with Harry.

They made it all the way to the front door of Harry’s apartments and Niall stood to the side as Harry fumbled with the large brass key in the lock. After a few attempted turns, Harry emitted a frustrated groan and rattled the key violently.

“Why do you never fucking open,” he muttered, wrenching the key some more.

“Let me have a go at it,” Niall said, reaching out to pull Harry’s hands away. Harry huffed, but conceded, and Niall wiggled the key a bit before feeling the lock click, and the door give way. Harry brushed past Niall into the entryway, as Niall removed the key and closed the door behind them.

When Niall walked into the main room, Harry was crouching by the fireplace, fingers trembling as he pushed the tongs in to rouse the embers. Niall placed the key on a table by the door, and slipped out of his shoes, before kneeling beside him to blow on them, coaxing the fire back to life with his breath. Once it was going, he added a few pieces of wood and sat back on his heels, looking over at Harry openly.

“You said you needed to practice?”

Harry’s eyes snapped over to him, and he nodded, pushing himself to his feet. “Yes.”

Niall stood by the fire as Harry walked over to one of his dressers and grabbed a bottle of wine and a glass off the top of it. He uncorked it with his teeth, lips curled back as his molars bit into the spongey cork. As he walked toward the harpsichord he poured a heavy amount into the glass, setting it down on a small table next to the instrument. Then, glancing over almost defiantly at Niall, Harry took a swig of wine straight from the bottle.

“It’s ok for us to play in here? You don’t have any neighbors who will care about the noise so late at night?”

Harry took another slow gulp, his adam’s apple bobbling slightly in his throat before he placed the bottle down on top of the harpsichord. His lips glistened red from the wine, and they twisted into a slow, sharp smirk.

“Of course it’s ok. I am Harry Styles, the most idolized creature in the Kingdom of Naples.”

Niall blinked at Harry’s blank tone, but when he met Harry’s eyes they were fraught with emotion. He didn’t know what to do, so he slid onto the bench and uncovered the keys. He plucked a couple of notes, and ran through a few chords to test the tuning, smiling when he noticed it was in his favorite key. Then Niall looked up at Harry.

“Why don’t you just start, and I’ll pick up on whatever it is you choose.” Harry nodded and inhaled shakily, his fingers twitching a bit towards his throat, but then he dropped his hands to his sides.

“Amore mio, grida di essere ascolato,” and Niall’s fingers flailed a little on the keys when he realized what Harry was singing. It was one of his arias, the first composition that he had ever shared with Harry all those months ago. Niall had written dozens more in the interim, each one written only with Harry’s voice in mind. But hearing Harry sing this one, from memory, even though he had only read it through once, had Niall’s breath caught in his chest. His fingers recovered quicker than his mind, as always, and they rushed to catch up, picking up a tremolo and an ascending bass line to match Harry’s melody.

Niall kept his eyes on Harry the entire time. Harry’s were shut, and his fists were clenched by his thighs. Each time he’d run up to the high note his entire body would sway forward, and as he’d make his way back down, he’d rock lightly back onto his heels. His voice cracked a few times, and seemed a bit hoarse, and Niall furrowed his brows in confusion. He had never heard Harry have difficulty hitting the notes in this sequence, or any run for that matter. Harry’s face flinched every time he didn’t quite hit a note, or when his vibrato shook unevenly, but Niall just kept on playing. Once the solo section finished, Harry continued, transitioning into the duet. Niall automatically began singing along, his voice steady against Harry’s vocal acrobatics.

When Harry let his voice fade into silence after the last flourish he collapsed onto the cushioned chaise lounge behind him and grabbed the wine bottle. The firelight danced on his cheekbones and cast a dark shadow under the cut of his jaw—Niall couldn’t see the bitemark anymore, but his eyes still went straight to the spot where he knew it was hidden. Niall continued to idly pluck at the keys, watching Harry drink, and then wipe his mouth with his sleeve.

“What’s wrong?” Niall asked finally, when Harry placed the bottle on the floor next to him. And then, softer, “I didn’t know you had Amore mio, mia voce memorized.” Harry’s eyes flew open and he pinned Niall with his stare.

“Of course I memorized it. It was the first piece of yours I ever sang. The first one you ever let me see. Did it sound ok just now? Was my voice alright?” Harry said, voice trembling at the end.

“Harry…” Niall started to say back, but his voice broke when he saw Harry pulling at his cravat, tugging it off slowly. Underneath the lace were the light traces of bruises roping around Harry’s neck. They bloomed darkest at the base of his throat and spread in tendrils out and around—handprints Niall realized abruptly, and he flew to his feet.

Harry flinched back against a cushion and Niall froze, hand outstretched.

“Who did this to you?” Niall whispered.

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry replied. Niall stepped forward and crouched down between Harry’s splayed thighs, looking up into his eyes.

“Why not?”

Harry huffed a laugh. “I’ll never see him again. But there are dozens of others just like him, who would love to do the same thing. I’m that disgusting, Niall. That horrible of a person.” His voice was thick and heavy now, rasping with emotion.

“Harry, stop it.” Niall said firmly, wrapping his hands around Harry’s wrists and squeezing lightly. “Stop fucking saying that sort of shit about yourself.”

“Niall, how can I not think they’re right? That I must actually deserve it somehow? Maybe it would be better if they one day succeeded in wrecking my voice.”

“You don’t. And it wouldn’t. You are amazing, Harry. And so is your voice.”

Harry exhaled and looked down at him. Niall could see the light dusting of stubble on his upper lip, and his eyes traced the subtle swell of Harry’s collarbone—visible now that Harry had tugged open the top buttons of his shirt.

“Niall,” Harry said, and Niall looked up to meet his gaze. “Të vöri bén.”

Just like when Harry had started singing earlier, Niall’s heart felt as though it was being squeezed by a vise.

“Të vöri bén, Niall. I love you.” Harry repeated, and Niall shook his head in disbelief.

“Harry, you? I mean, I love you too.” Niall stammered out finally, reaching up to swipe his thumbs across Harry’s cheekbones and down to the corners of his jaw. “Të vöri bén.”

Harry’s eyes glistened with tears, and he smiled up at Niall like he was the sun.

“My dressmaker from Milan was here last week, and I asked him how to say ‘I love you’ in Lombard. I wanted to say it to you in your mother tongue first.”

Niall grabbed Harry’s face between his palms and pulled him down so that their foreheads were pressed together. “I love you.”

Harry smiled and then pulled back a little so that he could find Niall’s mouth with his own. Niall sighed into the kiss, parting his lips with the exhale, and Harry gently pressed his tongue into Niall’s mouth before tugging lightly on Niall’s bottom lip with his teeth.

“Do you really?” Niall asked after a long moment, drawing back, but placing his hands on Harry’s thighs to steady himself. “I’m still worried about what happened to you. I hate it when the people you sleep with hurt you.”

“You never hurt me,” Harry replied, idly dipping his fingers under the hem of Niall’s sleeve.

“And I never want to.”

“I didn’t just say it because I was upset. I told you I asked Alessandro a week ago how to say it.”

“But how do you know?”

“How do you know, Niall?” Harry shot back, digging his thumb into Niall’s forearm.

“How could I not be in love with you? Everyone is to some extent, even if they have fucked up ways of expressing it.” Niall answered, glancing away.

“No. They don’t love me. Not actually. I love you because you see me, and you love me, not just the idea.”

Niall whimpered at that and turned back to look at him. It seemed like everything he had ever felt for Harry was swirling up around them both in a giant cloud of longing and relief and absolute exhilaration.

“Thank you for letting me see you,” he said, before his lips crashed back onto Harry’s and he clambered up onto the chaise to wrap himself around Harry completely.

The thundering applause continued well after the last notes of the finale shimmered and disappeared into the air. Niall craned his neck to catch a glimpse of Harry’s face as the curtain closed but couldn’t see him from his place down in the pit. As soon as he could, Niall hastily shut the cover and locked his harpsichord, snatching up his score and slipping out while all of the other musicians milled about, discussing the performance. He wove his way through backstage, dodging clumps of actors, and stage hands carrying scenery and props, before making his way to Harry’s dressing room.

Harry was standing in front of his mirror, and his eyes flicked up as Niall shut the door behind him, looking at Niall in the reflection, instead of turning around.

“Hey,” Niall said softly, not moving from his spot by the door. Harry made eye contact with him in the mirror for a moment before dropping his eyes, fiddling with the tiny buttons on his gloves. Niall allowed his eyes to wander for a moment and let them trail down from Harry’s face. He smiled when they reached the floor. Harry had already kicked off his shoes and peeled off his stockings and was standing there in his bare feet. It completely ruined the illusion, but something about seeing Harry’s awkward, bony feet peeking out under yards of lace and brocade made Niall feel better.

“Where’s Maria?” Niall asked, looking around and noticing that she, and all of the other company assistants were missing. Usually at this point they were all flitting around, helping Harry undress and take his makeup off.

“I sent her away for a bit,” Harry said, finally, turning to face Niall. He was still struggling with unfastening his gloves and Niall moved forward, unthinking, to pull Harry’s hand into his.

“Let me help with that,” he said, gently working open each of the pearl buttons that ran from Harry’s wrist to elbow. Only when he began to peel the glove down, revealing inch after inch of skin, did he realize what he’d done. He was touching Harry. His fingers began to tremble, and Harry’s other hand, still gloved, came to rest over his.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “I can get the rest.” And he slowly stripped the gloves off his fingertips before he tossed them onto the chair behind him.

Harry’s eyes were inscrutable when he turned back around, and Niall felt completely lost. Why had he come here? Was Harry even upset? His emotions must have played over his face because Harry sighed a little, and shook his head, the curls of his wig bouncing off his cheeks.

“It’s nothing I haven’t heard before, you know,” he said, beginning to pull pins out of his wig. “I am what I am, a freak who shouldn’t exist. He wasn’t wrong.”

Niall clenched his hands into fists, scowling. “You’re not a freak.” Harry merely shrugged, pulling the wig off his head and setting it onto its stand.

“I’m not a man, either,” he replied.

“Harry—” Niall began, but Harry interrupted him.

“Will you help me out of this dress, please? I told Maria to give me a few minutes, but I don’t want to be in it anymore.”

“Of course,” Niall replied, and Harry spun so that his back was facing Niall. He slowly undid the bodice, fingers trembling as they worked the small buttons through their tight fastenings. He held the gown steady as Harry stepped out of it, and just like the gloves, it ended up tossed onto a chair.

“Maria will hang it up later,” Harry said. “Can you unlace the corset as well?” Niall just nodded.

Once he was out of the corset Harry wrapped himself in a soft silk robe and undid his hair. It tumbled down around his face, the soft curls brushing his bare collarbones. He took a rag and began to scrub at his cheeks, removing the white paint that was smeared all over his face, already patchy in places from sweat. Niall just stood a few steps away, uncertain of whether he should still be there.

“It really doesn’t matter,” Harry said, breaking the silence, “what they yell at me. They’re still here and paying money to see me perform.”

“It doesn’t mean they should say those things, though.” Niall replied. Harry just lifted one shoulder in a shrug, his robe slipping open further to reveal the smooth, luscious skin of his torso.

“I make them uncomfortable. And jealous.”

“Everyone loves your voice, and you were wonderful tonight.”

“I was. Sometimes I think I sing my best when people heckle me.”

“I just don’t like to hear it, the things they say.”

“I’m an angel and a devil, Niall. Not quite a woman, definitely not a man. I’m just a bizarre creature with an incredible voice that they all both adore and despise. Nobody knows what to make of me.”

“No,” Niall said, shaking his head. “You’re just Harry. And I think you’re perfect just as you are.” Harry made a little noise at that, choked off in the back of his throat.

“Niall,” he whispered, green eyes suddenly blazing with a passion and intensity that Niall had never seen before. And somehow, then, they were kissing. Harry’s lips were warm and plush beneath his, and Niall reached up to wind trembling fingers through Harry’s soft curls. The moment stretched on, long and languorous as Harry moved his mouth slightly, parted his lips, and slipped his tongue out to brush against Niall’s. But then it snapped. A rap on the door startled them both, and they broke apart. Niall’s heart was pounding wildly, but when he looked over Harry seemed practically unaffected.

Maria opened the door and poked her head in.

“Excuse me, but the Lady Kendall is here to see you.” Harry straightened, and ran his fingers through his curls, tousling them the way Niall had seen him do a million times in rehearsal.

“Wonderful, Maria. Thank you. Do send her in and give us at least three hours without interruption. You may tend to my costume after we are done.”

The veneer was back, and Niall had to glance away, uncomfortable with how quickly Harry snapped back into his character, into himself.

“If you’ll excuse me, Niall. It seems my evening is suddenly accounted for.” Niall hated the sibilant lilt to Harry’s voice, the smug tone he thought they had moved past.

“Of course. My apologies for keeping you,” he replied, struggling to keep his voice even, inclining his head and moving towards the door.

The lady appeared in the doorway, with a gust of heavy perfume and the rustle of luxurious fabrics. Her dark eyes raked over Harry, in an almost proprietary fashion, before she moved into the room or said anything.

“Harry, it has been far too long,” she said, moving towards him without sparing Niall a glance. A slow smirk was unfurling on Harry’s face, his lips still stained red from his makeup.

“My lady,” he said, catching her hand in his and bringing it up to his mouth. Niall paused to watch, his chest tight as he observed the spectacle. Perhaps sensing he was still there, Harry’s eyes glanced over his companion’s shoulder to where he was standing in the doorway. For a moment Niall thought that he saw something, a flicker of emotion in Harry’s eyes, before it was gone, smothered entirely.

“Do close the door on your way out, maestro,” he said, and Niall crumbled. He closed the door softly and made his way along the hallway, knees shaking as he took the stairs back down to the rehearsal spaces.

Zayn turned the corner quickly, the soft leather of his sandals slipping a bit at the change of direction on the smooth stones beneath his feet. A pair of giggling young boys ran past him, heads bent together in obvious mischief. He was expected back at the palace in less than half an hour, as Priam was having a large banquet this evening. Louis had already been getting in his rooms when Zayn had snuck out, muttering about which set of elaborate robes he wanted to wear.

His mother would have his head if he was late for his formal entrance, but something in Zayn's mind was compelling him further away from the palace, through the winding streets of the upper city, completely ignoring the potential for Hecuba's wrath. Feeling a strange sensation gathering at the base of his neck, he paused and slowly turned to the left. The gleaming steps up to the Temple of Apollo were suddenly right in front of him-he had no recollection of crossing the square, entering the sacred precinct, and coming to stand by the temple. Moved as if by some other force, Zayn began the ascent, feet stepping one after the other, eyes fixed forward.

When he finally reached the top, he paused and leaned against one of the broad, cool columns, smoothed by the thousands of gentle human touches that had come before him. Zayn couldn't see any of the normal temple attendants in sight. The priests were likely already on their way to the palace, but something was odd about the silence in the cella. Usually, Zayn's fuzzy brain noted, there were at least two or three temple slaves attempting to make themselves as invisible as possible as they swept or tended the flames of the lamps that lined the inner colonnade. Today, though, he was totally alone.

Zayn stepped further into the dark interior of the cella, gaze drawn as always to the gleaming statue of Apollo towering at the end of the room. His eyes did not stray from the statue as he inched ever closer, nor did they notice the increasing intensity of the flames, or the beginnings of a strong breeze. Only when a large, swirling gust slammed the great doors of the temple shut, did Zayn take note. Somehow, the lamps all remained lit, sputtering flames winking in the sudden, extreme darkness.

Against all reason, the cult statue was still perfectly visible, as if it were illuminated by a force much greater than the scattered lamps. Reaching the base of the statue, Zayn craned his head to look up the undulating curves of ivory and gold, from strong calves, skimming along flat chest, to arrive at the chiseled chin. After a moment Zayn lowered his eyes and examined the twisted snake carved at the feet of the god.

"Python," he whispered, lips moving of their own accord to mouth the name of the beast Apollo had slain, whose name they recounted with fear and awe in the prayers and sacrifices they offered to the god of the silver bow.

Zayn had rarely seen the snake, as the feet of the statue were often covered, dripping with long, winding garlands and flowers piled high. Today, though, the sinuous marble body was stark, right in his line of sight. He reached out slowly and traced the scalloped scales, his feet following the path that he drew out, trailing his finger along the line of its body until he reached the head, lolling to the side from the impact of Apollo's well-aimed arrow.

Suddenly, as his fingertips skated over the snake's head, he felt it move. Zayn froze, and slowly removed his hand as the snake blinked and flicked a tongue out of its gaping, marble mouth. Then, the creature's head swiveled, bobbing slightly as it looked him up and down. Without warning, the massive snake slid off the statue base and twisted its body up and around Zayn's.

Zayn stood motionless, paralyzed with fear as the textured marble coiled around his flesh, cool to touch and utterly unyielding. He blinked, and suddenly the all of the surrounding columns were also writhing and undulating like snakes.

Python's enormous, blunt head bumped against his temple, and Zayn could feel the snake's soft exhales rustling the tendrils of hair curling back from his face, and the tongue flicking in and out, barely touching the shell of his ear.

"Princeling," the snake hissed, its voice echoing across the marbles floors, and up through the towering wooden eaves, "the Gods have chosen you."

The snake pulled its head back further and held it in front of Zayn's face. Terrified as he was, Zayn was unable to blink, entranced by the swaying, gleaming beast before his eyes.

"You shall see the future of your people, and of this city, and speak freely about its doom. But no one will ever pay heed to your words. When the truth passes from your lips, the ears of your listeners will be closed, and their hearts hardened to prophesies you share."

The snake then darted forward, brushing its forked tongue quickly across Zayn's eyelids-his eyes had snapped shut of their own accord right before the snake's stone tongue touched his skin. Next, the cool marble caressed his lips, before both that contact, and the weight of the beast wrapped around his body, disappeared altogether. The snake dropped back down to the floor, its body sliding over Zayn's feet and back up around Apollo's. Reeling from the shift in weight, Zayn stumbled back slightly to catch himself on his heels, as the snake finished winding itself on the statue base.

His eyes flashed open and darted up to see a bright glow in Apollo's eyes that was fast dimming. Zayn even thought he saw the god exhale, nostrils flaring slightly. With another echoing bang, the temple doors slammed open again, bright sunlight flooding back into the cella. The flames danced in the resulting draft, casting undulating shadows upon the imposing columns that stood completely still, with no indication of their previous contortions. Pausing for a moment longer, chest heaving as though he had just sprinted from the lower town all the way up to the acropolis, Zayn felt his mind returning to his body, the cloudy feeling dissipating quickly from the edges of his consciousness. Finally, once his breathing steadied, Zayn squared his shoulders and raised his chin. It was time to return to the feast. His duty could not be avoided any longer, and even divine encounters would not save him from Hecuba's unbridled anger if he missed his father's welcome speech.

Tell me, Muse, about a girl.
A girl whose face was a pawn of men and gods.
And when she fell in love, the whole world went to war.
Tell me, divine daughter of Zeus, how this girl exchanged one prison
For another, until she realized: only she had the ability
To set herself free.
Tell me the story, Muse, of how the most beautiful girl
Became the most powerful woman in the world.