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brightingales · 6 years ago

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Mr Nightingale (5k)

Rated: T, No Warnings Read on AO3 here

Harry and James decide that breaking up and moving on is the right thing to do. Harry is fine with it; until he really, really isn’t.

Or – James steals one of Mr Rochester’s schemes from Jane Eyre to try and drive Harry wild with jealousy. Spoiler: it works.

#Wedding Planning #Anglst with a Happy Ending #Jane Eyre References #Pining

“Ah, Harry!” James says as he sits down at the coffee table. “Just the man I wanted to see!”

Harry finds that hard to believe; ever since their break-up they’ve been doing a very good job of ignoring each other. Harry has finally been able to build a life for himself – no longer in Ste’s shadow or held within James’s clutches. He’s mending his relationship with his family. He’s enrolled in a course at a University in Liverpool. He’s got his own place (or, at least, he’s living off his student loan and sharing a house with four other lads who are all even younger than him).

“I can’t,” he says, trying to disappear into his Tort Law textbook, “I’m waiting for Dad. Dee Dee’s last chemo treatment is today, and I wanted to take him for coffee afterwards.”

“A noble idea,” James says with a smile. “It’s only a quick question that I need your help with.” James is using that tone of voice that means he’s just going to sit and badger on until he gets his way. Harry sighs and closes his book.

“You have a sort of… youthful flair with fashion,” James says, “and you’ve always dressed better than your peers. You’ve got quite the eye for design, actually, when you put your mind to it. Anyway, I was wondering if you would give me your opinion on this.”

James reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a file which he opens to reveal a collection of scraps of paper. It takes Harry a while to piece together what he is looking at.

“Is this a mood board?” Harry asks. The thought of James flicking through magazines, cutting things out, and painstakingly sticking them down is so unlike any image he has of James in his head that he briefly wonders if he has somehow gained a concussion in the last few seconds.

“No. Well, I suppose it is in a roundabout way.”

“Are you decorating?”

“No! It’s for the wedding, of course!”

The entire world stops for Harry.

James is getting married. He’s really moved on. Harry has lost his final chance to win him back. He chokes down the bile rising in his throat and takes a deep breath to cover the fact that he feels like he might burst into tears like some scolded schoolboy.

“Oh… Cool…” Harry can only say one word at a time. “Wedding… Wow…”

James seems amused by Harry’s mental breakdown but thankfully allows him time to process the information.

“Yes, well, it was a bit of a shock to me. I’ve never been the marrying kind. But this is the right thing to do! I love him, I want to commit to him, and I plan to give him the kind of security that he’s never had before.”

Hearing James declare his love for someone else is like a knife in Harry’s chest. Everything else is just salt in the wound.

“I want every detail to be perfect for him,” James continues not noticing the way Harry is wincing every time James mentions his fiancé. “Which is why I need your help picking the colour scheme.”

Harry would literally rather do anything else. But he knows James: he’s not going to let this drop. It’s better to give him a quick answer and escape the situation than spend ages arguing about it. He takes the folder in his hands and tries to hide his face with it so that James won’t see the angry blush colouring his cheeks. James has shown a surprising amount of artistic flair here: there are colour swatches, photographs of different suit cuts, even a peacock feather stuck to the page labelled ‘for inspiration’.

“Emerald,” Harry eventually chokes out. “It will match your eyes. Then maybe a lighter green for him. Or Purple for you both. And white. Everyone wants white at their wedding.”

“And the flowers? Roses or…”

“I’ve got to go,” Harry interrupts, utterly desperate to get away. “Good luck with the wedding planning,” he says as he haphazardly packs up his things and throws himself towards the exit.

It’s the least sincere thing he’s ever said.

There’s a sort of commotion coming from around the corner and Harry alters the path he is jogging on so that he can find out what the cause is. It becomes immediately clear. A gang of the village’s teenagers is ‘ooohing’ and ‘ahhhing’ over a dark silver Aston Martin parked outside James’s flat.

The car is gorgeous. So is the man standing beside it. James is perfectly matched to the sleek and beautiful machine. The curves of his body, that Harry once knew so well, are hugged by a new charcoal coloured suit. James’s favourite chequered pattern is delicately woven into the material and a blood red tie bringing together the whole scene with an elaborate flourish.

Harry aches at the sight of him.

“Harry!” Damn James and his ability to spot Harry in a crowd. “Just the man I wanted to see! What do you think of my new wheels?”

“Yeah, they’re great,” Harry admits through gritted teeth. “Who doesn’t like an Aston Martin?”

“Who indeed?” James says with a wry smile. “So, you think this will make an acceptable carriage for the new Mr Nightingale?” Another mention of James’s fiancé is another bruise on Harry’s heart. James either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “Won’t we look good together, driving off to the wedding venue?”

“Yes, of course,” Harry replies.

“Of course, you’ll look good; you look good in everything,” remains unsaid.

The only way he can avoid James is to spend as much time as he can away from the village. Which is fine; he doesn’t really have any reason to be there except for the occasional cautious visit home. He’s doing well for himself in Liverpool. Sure, making friends is a bit difficult; he’s not yet found anyone who he shares any ‘common life experiences’ with. But that’s ok. He’s got his law books to curl up with in the evening and a new city to explore in the day. Harry’s even challenged himself if he can find a new coffee shop to go to whenever he needs a caffeine fix.

So how is it possible, that out of literally hundreds of different coffee shops in this city, Harry walks into the only one where James Nightingale is sitting. He almost turns on his heal and storms out. James hasn’t seen him yet. It would be so easy to just quietly slip away and pretend that none of this has happened.

“Coward” a voice within him calls.

Harry could move to Timbuktu and he would still look for James around every corner. He would still dream of bumping into him and seeing him smile once more. He would still find things that made him think of James and made him want to talk to him, even if they were living thousands of miles apart. Separation clearly isn’t helping him get over James. He needs another approach. Perhaps, if they can’t be lovers, they can at least try to be friends?

“James,” Harry says. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Oh! Harry!” James looks up from the magazine he’s flicking through. “You’re looking well! Law school must suit you.”

Harry knows that he must be blushing. Coming from James, this is high praise indeed.

“Do you want a drink?” James asks.

Harry feels like he is on the precipice of something. Sure, he has just had a full-on argument with himself about whether or not he should try being friends with James. But letting James buy him coffee feels like a line in the sand somehow. Still, Harry knows himself well enough to realise that he can’t walk away from James. Especially when the older man is looking up at him with a wide and genuine smile.

So, they have coffee as James listens to Harry talk about his University course. They compare the differences in their training and tell silly jokes about how Harry’s “experiences” with the legal system have given him an edge over his fellow students. Harry confesses that he doesn’t think he’ll ever understand Property Law and James swears him to secrecy when he admits that he once failed an exam and had to work the whole way through summer to retake it before any of his friends noticed that he was behind.

It’s so easy, it’s almost scary. Falling back into friendship with James is like rediscovering a favourite album. Everything feels familiar, Harry still remembers all the lyrical parts of the man sitting in front of him, even the tiny details that he thought he had long forgotten – like the crease at the corner of his eye or the precise tone of his sigh. He knows that he will be singing James in his head for the rest of the day.

“What are you doing in Liverpool, then?” Harry eventually asks.

“Well, this might be old fashioned, but I was at the travel agents. I know: I’m a dinosaur. But I wanted some advice on Honeymoon destinations and it’s so much easier to talk to a real person about these sorts of things.”

Harry nearly chokes on his coffee. That warm and fuzzy feeling that has settled so nicely over their conversation suddenly turns lukewarm. The spectre of this hated fiancé hovers behind James and Harry curses himself for not running away when he had the chance.

“Anyway, I left the shop more confused than when I started,” James continues. “What do you think of Ibiza? I know I’d probably stick out like a sore thumb, but I’m sure the new Mr Nightingale will enjoy it immensely, and I just want to see him happy.”

Harry doesn’t know much about Ibiza, but he does know that he’s going to be sick. Still, it would be rude to throw up the coffee James has just bought him all over the man’s expensive leather shoes, so he gets a hold of himself. After all, James had to watch him swan about the village planning his disastrous wedding to Ste. Some might say this is Karma. He picks up some of the glossy brochures lying across the table. The bright colours and photoshopped pictures proclaim that the holidays featured inside are “great deals” that are “perfect for two!” He flicks through the pages trying not to imagine that he is the one James wants to take backpacking in Eastern Europe, or on a cruise around the frozen fjords of Norway, or on the road trip of a lifetime along the north-California coast.

Harry knows that he will dream of this tonight – a perfect nightmare where James leads him around the globe by the hand and shows him off as Mr Nightingale to every person that they meet.

Now is not the time for fantasy. He needs to give James his answer or risk appearing sullen and ungrateful. He’s too ashamed of himself and his continued pathetic crush on James to admit that he was wrong when he said that they should end things, that he couldn’t see a future for the two of them, that he was fine with James moving on and seeing other people.

“Your fiancé will enjoy the beaches,” Harry says eventually. He doesn’t actually know if this is true; he’s never met the man. But he has seen James hanging around with a tall, slim, boy who has a toned body, a snappy dress sense, and impeccably groomed facial hair. Harry shouldn’t judge –especially when he is hurt and wounded and looking for an excuse to hate something – but the boy seems to be the sort that would go on holiday just to display his body and work on his tan.

“But…” Harry continues, “You’ll get bored. And sunburnt. You should go somewhere romantic. Classic. Somewhere where you can show off exactly how much you know about the local art or the architecture…”

“Won’t that be a bit boring for him…?” James asks with a strange sort of smile.

“Not if he loves you!” Harry says, almost too quickly. “I mean… healthy relationships are about compromise, right? You told me that once. He should want to let you soak up all the culture you can, and I know you’ll prioritise his wants without sacrificing your own because that’s how you always were with me…”

It’s a stupid thing to say.

Harry might as well have just carved his own heart out of his chest and laid it, still beating and bleeding, on the table in front of them. This isn’t fair. He wants James. And it was only through his own stupidity that he lost him. But that doesn’t mean that James should be miserable too. The least Harry can do is give James and his new lover his blessing.

He finds exactly the right page and hands it back over to James.

“Genoa?” the older man questions. “It’s a bit unusual.”

“It’s perfect. I thought of maybe Barcelona or Venice but they’re both too touristy. Genoa has the best of everything you want. Sun. Great food. Loads of things that you can do together…”

“This is perfect Harry,” James tells him. That strange smile Harry has noticed before blooms over James’s lips again and Harry aches to reach out and kiss him. James looks so pleased with the thought of marrying his lover and taking him off to Italy, but there’s something else there too. The gleam in James’s eye that he only ever gets when a plan starts forming in his head. The confident posture that James only relaxes into when he is sure that he has done the right thing. The blush on his neck that only appears when James is imagining something filled with pleasure and passion.

Harry is about to tear out his own hair with envy. But thankfully, before he can go completely mad, something distracts James.

“Christ is that the time?” James says. “Sorry, Harry. I’ve got an important appointment and I have to run. It was nice to see you. And thanks for the help – this honeymoon will be perfect!”

Harry doesn’t watch him leave. He just stares at the floor and wishes that it will swallow him whole.

He stays there for ages, too paralyzed with jealousy to move. He knows he’s been there too long when one of the waitresses comes over to the table and pointedly asks him whether he’s going to finish the last dregs of cold coffee in his mug. He shakes his head but doesn’t get out of the way even when she starts to tidy up around him. He knows he’s being childish, but he needs to sit and sulk for just a little while longer.

“Oh! Your friend left his wallet on the table,” the waitress says. “Can you tell him we’ve put it behind the counter for him?”

Harry’s never been much of a masochist, but he must be in the mood for it today. Because before he can realise what a bad idea this is he’s saying: “No need. James and I live in the same village. I’ll take it back to his place now.”

He grabs the wallet – maybe a little too forcefully – out of her hand. For a second, she looks like she is going to argue with him, and Harry realises that he probably looks quite suspicious. “If he comes back, tell him Harry has his wallet,’ he says to reassure her before throwing his coat on and rushing out of the shop.

The whole journey back to Hollyoaks is spent worrying that he has made a massive mistake. After that disastrous attempt at friendship, Harry knows now more than ever that if he wants to get over James he needs to stay away. But Harry feels just as desperate to see James as he did back in the early days of their affair. It’s like there is thread suspended between the two of them, one end tied around the bones of Harry’s ribcage, the other clasped in James’s hand for him to pull and tug on however he wishes. If James lets go, Harry will drift away, like a balloon caught in the breeze, unable to find his way back to safety, drifting aimlessly away from everything he once called ‘home’.

James is in the flat; the light from the living room window tells Harry that. He should probably just post the wallet back through the letterbox of the front door, and for a moment that seems like the most elegant solution. But, of course, the wallet is too swollen with cash and ticket stubs to fit through. Harry will have to be brave.

He knocks.

For once, James looks surprised.

“Youleftyourwallet” comes out all in one word. Harry holds it out to James, who takes it. But rather than simply closing the door on him, as Harry half hoped that he would, James moves aside, implicitly inviting him in. Harry is helpless but to follow him.

“Thanks for this,” James says as he places the wallet on the breakfast bar. “You’ve saved me the journey back into Liverpool.”

“It’s the least I could do,” Harry mutters, ducking his head so that he won’t have to see the peculiar way James is looking at him. Something is off with him tonight. As he turns his head, Harry notices a pair of suits laid out across the back of the sofa. James catches him looking.

“They’re nice, aren’t they?”

“Special occasion?” Harry asks, half knowing the answer already.

“What else!” James replies. He goes over to unzip one of the suits out of its protective cover. The suit jacket he pulls out is a rich and deep purple. Harry can tell, just by looking, that it is made out of the finest quality wool. James holds it out to Harry as if he can see Harry’s fingers itch to touch it.

“I took your advice, with some adaptations, of course,” James tells him. “Purple for the wedding suits, emerald accents where possible. A darker shirt for me, something lighter and more youthful for him. I’d make a joke about that reflecting our personalities, but it would probably be too crass,” he says with a sly chuckle. “Here, help me with this.”

James seems to suddenly grow eight arms, because before Harry can even register what’s happening, James has taken him out of his coat and slipped the suit jacket onto Harry’s shoulders. He moves quickly, pulling the fabric this way and that, checking the fit and smoothing out non-existent creases. He drags Harry further into the living room, looking at him intensely under the light and circling him like a vulture.

“Stay there. I just need to check something,” James tells Harry, heading off into the bedroom and leaving Harry shocked and alone. He doesn’t even have the time to process what has happened before James is back, a large mirror in his hands. He holds it up so that Harry can take a good look at himself.

The suit fits. It shouldn’t – for all that Harry has always been a bit petite, there’s a breadth to his shoulders and a thickness to his chest that doesn’t match the scrawny frame of James’s new lover. It should be far too small for him, but instead, every dart, every seam, every fold, hits the perfect angle on his torso. The shade of purple is beautiful. Royal in its richness, Harry has never seen a colour that suits his skin so well or makes him look as elegant and as refined as this. The wool is just as heavy as he thought it would be. But rather than feeling like a comfort, the weight that presses down on his shoulders and hugs around his torso feels like it may suffocate him at any moment.

Finally, he stares his reflection in the eye. He looks like a dream. Like an impossible fantasy of the life he so wishes he could live.

“James…” he says, his voice thick with tears. “James, this has to stop.”

James has been admiring the suit from where he is holding the mirror. But when he sees the tears in Harry’s eyes his expression changes from one of pride to one of horror.

“You are many things, James,” Harry continues. “You are spiteful, and egotistical, and conniving. But you’ve never been cruel. At least not to me.” The tears flow freely, and Harry gives in to the urge to sob, “so why are you being so cruel now?”

“Harry… I….”

Harry tries to wipe some of the tears away ignoring James’s pity-filled eyes: “Look. I get it. I deserve this for what I put you through with Ste. And I thought I could handle it. Talking about colours, and flowers, and venues. It hurt but it was fine. I guessed it was karma. That I deserved it after all the pain I caused you. But this! Dressing me up like your fiancé, making me wear the clothes that he is going to marry you in, dangling the future I could have had in front of me and then snatching it away…? How could you be so vindictive? Don’t you feel anything for me?”

Harry’s knees buckle under him and he falls onto the sofa. He hides his face in his hands and, for the first time in months, lets all of the hurt and disappointment flow out of him. The sleeves of the suit jacket are wet with tears. His face is red and blotchy. He must look so disgusting to James.

“I guess you just feel contempt,” Harry murmurs through his sobs. “It’s all I deserve but… this is too much. I can’t stand being so jealous. And I can’t bear for you to be out in the world hating me as much as you do now.”

Through the tightness in his chest and the throbbing pain in his head from crying too much too fast, Harry becomes aware of the fact that James has moved and is now standing in front of him. Harry looks up at James looking down at him, so perfect and so handsome and so utterly out of his reach.

“James… Please…” Harry begs.

James’s expression is unreadable: “What are you asking for, Harry?”

“I don’t know…!” it comes out almost like a wail and Harry has to hide his face again; he’s so embarrassed.

The sofa dips beside him and James rests a hand softly on Harry’s back as if he is trying to soothe the sobs that still wrack his body. It’s a kindness that tastes too vicious for words.

“Come on now, no more tears,” James says quietly. “I’ve never liked seeing you upset.”

Harry does his best to pull himself together. James offers him a tissue and he does what he can to mop his face up and look a bit more presentable. He’s sure he looks a wreck though; he feels like the tears he has cried have left a trail of blisters down his cheeks.

“Harry, I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to give me an honest answer, ok?” James eventually says. “What do you actually think of my fiancé?”

“Oh James, come on.”

“I know. Just answer me. What do you think of him?”

Harry tries to conjure an image of the young man in his head. “I don’t know him well enough. He’s handsome I guess. Young. Even younger than me…”

“And how do you feel when you see me touch him, or kiss him?”

“James…”

“Just answer,” James says, his voice still quiet and soothing.

Harry knows that watching James be with someone else makes him overwhelmed with jealousy and he opens his mouth to tell James that. But then… then he realises he’s actually never seen the two of them do more but walk around the village chatting, or sometimes sit and have a coffee together.

“I haven’t seen you,” Harry admits. “I thought you were trying to spare my feelings.”

“Even after all the things you’ve just accused me of doing?”

Harry shakes his head, utterly ashamed of himself.

“Look,” James says reaching over to take a photo frame off the coffee table. The picture is a selfie of James and his young man, smiling gently in the winter sunshine. “This boy here – his name is Romeo. He’s not my fiancé.”

Harry needs a moment to let the news sink in. He spent so long obsessed with the idea that this boy will one day marry his James that he’d never even considered the fact that he’s not actually seen them be affectionate in public.

“He’s my son,” James explains.

Really, it’s just made the whole scenario much more confusing. But the relief Harry feels is enough to make him accept the news without questioning it. Much.

“How?” he manages to say.

James shrugs. “It’s a long, complicated, and not particularly pleasant story. I’ve only known about him for 6 months or so and we’re still trying to figure out what kind of relationship we want to have. But that’s why I’ve been spending so much time with him. Nothing else.”

“But if he’s not your fiancé, who is…?”

James sighs. He gets up and goes to the kitchen where he pours two glasses of whiskey.

“You’ve accused me of being cruel, and you’re right,” James admits as he hands one of the glasses over to Harry. “I’m not proud of myself, but it was the only way I could think of to get through to you. You weren’t answering my calls. You were hardly ever in the village. I needed to be sure that you still wanted me, and I didn’t trust you to be honest with me if I asked.”

“James, what are you talking about?”

“I thought you might get the hint after the colours. Or that, maybe, you had figured it out when I asked about the honeymoon….”

“You’re not making any sense, James,” Harry interrupts.

“It’s you, Harry. You’re the man I’m going to marry.”

Harry pauses. And then: “Are you joking? Aren’t I upset enough for you, now you have to dig the knife in even more? Christ, when did you become such a sadist?” He knows he has to leave so he pushes the whiskey glass away from him and tears himself out of the suit throwing it at James’s head.

“You’ve never read Jane Eyre have you?” James asks.

“And now you’re taking the piss!”

“I’m not Harry!” James shouts. “I’m not. I promise. I’m just explaining myself badly. Please, hear me out.”

Harry considers his options. He can’t help but feel that he’s the centre of some massive cruel joke. But he also can’t say no to James when he is looking at him with such hope in his eyes.

“Fine,” Harry concedes. “But I need you to be clear with me, ok? What exactly is going on?”

James goes over to where Harry is hovering by the door unsure of whether he should cut his losses and run. They stand toe-to-toe and Harry’s vision is suddenly full of green eyes and rose-pink skin.

“I wanted you to be jealous. I shouldn’t have done. But I didn’t know how else to get your attention. I thought if you realised I had moved on you might try and fight to get me back. So, I sat down, I imagined what it would be like to marry you, and I constructed this fake engagement in my head so that I could ask you all sorts of questions about it and find out if you had really let me go. But then, you gave me such good advice. You were so thoughtful and so selfless. And I realised that I couldn’t deceive you like this anymore, that I was wrong to try and manipulate you like that. I was actually, just now, on my way out to come to find you and tell you the truth.”

“All of this,” Harry asks, “just to make me think you were marrying someone else? Just to make me admit that I want it to be me that you marry?”

“Do you?” James asks, his voice cracking with hope. “Do you still want that?”

After all the angst – the upsets, and the envy, and the bone-crushing agony of thinking that he had lost James for good – he knows now more than ever that whatever mistake James has made Harry will always find it within himself to forgive him.

He tells him so with a kiss. Harry reaches up and caresses the back of James’s neck. He pulls him down and presses their lips together, the touch as light as a pair of butterfly wings.

“Harry,” James sounds utterly broken when they pull apart.

“I love you, James,” Harry says to reassure him. “These last weeks have been hell, and I’m still cross that you put me through them, but I love you more than anything. And I’m so strangely flattered that you went to all this effort just to make me jealous. I mean – you ordered suits.”

James smiles at that. “I had your one made to your measurements. I couldn’t wait to see you in it, and when you turned up today I couldn’t resist. We can take them back though if you want to.”

“I’m not sure they’ll take them back; not with my snot all over the sleeves.” That, at least, causes James to laugh and helps him relax a little bit more. “Anyway. I love my suit. And I want to marry you in it.”

“Really?” James gasps.

Harry wraps his arms around James’s middle, pulls him closer so that he can rest his head against James’s chest and listen to his heartbeat there.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think about this recently. And there’s one thing I know for sure now. I want to be Mr Nightingale. I want all of the things you described to me. I want the security and the commitment. I want a ring on my finger that shows the world that you love me. I want to be part of your family. I want to belong to you, legally, and I want you to be mine.”

“Harry Thompson, are you proposing to me?” James asks with so much joy in his voice that Harry thinks he might burst.

“Mr Nightingale, are you saying yes?”

It’s James’s turn to kiss him now. Which he does. Over and over and over again.

#jarry #writing tag #long post #crikey thats a lot of words

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