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12 months ago

The rooftop was cold under Harry's boots, the sharp wind cutting through the Gotham skyline as if the city was alive. Below him, chaos unfolded with all the predictability of a poorly written play. Gotham's rogues scattered like rats and Batman descended in his usual theatrical flair. Imposing, mechanical, dull. A game of cat and mouse, yes, but Harry found himself wanting a new thrill, a new spark.

Harry barely paid attention anymore. He knew every step, every line of dialogue in this dreary script. He perched lazily on the edge of the building, his sharp grin concealed by shadows, waiting for something, anything to reignite the thrill of the hunt.

And then he saw him.

It was a flicker at first, a blur of movement that didn't belong to the Bat's looming shadow. Smaller. Quicker. Sharp-edged and lithe. Harry leaned forward, the grin slipping from his face as he squinted into the darkness.

A figure darted between the fray, his dark suit catching the dim glow of the streetlights. The suit clung to him like it was made for him, emphasising his lean frame and the fluidity of his movements. The stranger moved with an unpolished grace, raw and electric. There was something wild about him, an untamed fire.

Harry didn't want to care. Not really. But the more he watched, the harder it became to look away.

"Now, who might you be?" he murmured aloud, tilting his head as he leaned forward, elbows resting on the rooftop's ledge. His voice was low and curious like he was asking himself a riddle he already wanted the answer to.

Harry's chest tightened, something strange and unbidden rising within him. He felt his heartbeat quicken, his blood humming with an excitement he hadn't felt in months. Years, maybe. Gotham, in all its grim predictability, had conjured something new just to keep him entertained.

His grin returned, slower this time, his teeth catching the light as he watched.

The stranger moved like he owned the night, his strikes unrelenting but far from perfect. His inexperience only added to his rawness. He faltered once, recovering quickly, and Harry's breath caught in his throat.

"Careful now," he whispered, as though the boy could hear him.

And then he saw it—the red flash across his chest, the unmistakable etchings of the letter R.

The realisation hit him like a bolt of lightning. Batman had a shadow. Not just a shadow—a brother.

Harry's lips parted, his mind racing. He'd heard the whispers, the rumours that clung to the edges of Gotham's elite. The young brother, the one who had disappeared from public view after his parents' deaths, shrouded in secrecy and shielded from Gotham's prying eyes. Protected. Untouched. Until now. Until he'd stepped out of the shadows to follow in Batman's footsteps.

"Well, isn't this something?" Harry mused. His lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile.

Gotham had given him a gift.

The pull was immediate and magnetic. Even as Batman made his commanding presence known, Harry couldn't look away, couldn't shift his focus. His gaze stayed locked on Robin, trailing his every move.

For the first time in years, Harry felt alive. His chest burned with something he couldn't place, something he didn't want to name. It wasn't just intrigue. It wasn't just admiration for the boy's fire, for the way he moved like he had something to prove. It was want. Raw, unrelenting want.

He grinned. "Looks like Gotham just got a lot more interesting," he muttered, his voice laced with a mix of amusement and something much darker.

He watched as the boy—Robin—finished the fight, his movements slowing as the last thug hit the ground. Batman loomed nearby, directing the scene with his usual air of command, but Harry barely noticed. His world had shifted.

Robin was fire. Brilliance. The only thing in Gotham worth watching.

The Bat, the game, the chaos—none of it mattered anymore.

Because now, there was him.

***

It had become a ritual.

Week after week, Harry lingered in the periphery. Not for Batman but for the smaller figure by his side. Robin was the storm's spark—the wildness that made the night worth watching.

The boy moved like liquid flame, slipping through Gotham's shadows with a fire that Harry had never seen before. Harry perched high on rooftops, crouched in alleys, always watching, always waiting for that spark. And Robin never disappointed.

Harry stood in the shadow of a fire escape, his gloved hands resting lightly on the railing. Below, Robin darted forward, a blur of dark armour and precise motion as he lept from the ledge. Two thugs went down in quick succession, their cries cut off as Robin landed, crouching low. He straightened slowly, his chest heaving, a triumphant glint in his eye.

Harry's lips curved into a slow smile.

Batman finally stepped into view but he didn't look at Robin. Not once.

Instead, he called out an order—something about securing the area—and turned his attention to the remaining thugs. Robin's expression shifted slightly, the faint flicker of pride in his eyes dimming under Batman's shadow. He moved to comply, nodding without a word before disappearing into the shadows.

"I see you," Harry whispered, his voice a quiet promise to the wind.

It irritated him more than it should have. How could Batman not see it? The potential, the brightness, the untamed fire? Robin was a revelation, a force waiting to be unleashed, and Batman treated him like a sidekick.

He couldn't stop watching. Every step, every movement was etched into his mind, each one adding to the growing pull in his chest. It was primal, a need that burned hotter every time he saw him.

Mine, his mind whispered. The word repeated itself like a mantra, relentless and fierce. Harry didn't want to just watch anymore. He wanted to get closer, to feel the heat of that fire up close.

He clenched the railing, his knuckles whitening under his gloves as Robin disappeared into the shadows once more.

***

Knowing his name wasn't enough.

Harry devoured every scrap of information he could find on Robin. Files, photos, whispered reports. His henchmen were baffled by the sudden shift in focus. Why was he so interested in Batman's little sidekick?

But they didn't see him like Harry did. They didn't see the fire in his eyes, the delicacy in his movements. They didn't see the way he shone, even when no one else noticed.

The reports came in like clockwork. Every sighting, every detail. His henchmen trailed Robin at a distance, feeding Harry's growing obsession. They quickly learned to call Harry the moment Robin was spotted and Harry would drop everything to watch. From the shadows, from rooftops, through the grainy feed of surveillance cameras—it didn't matter.

He spread the files across his desk, his fingers brushing over the images. The grainy quality couldn't dim the light in Louis' eyes.

"Protected," Harry murmured, his voice low and soft. "Hidden."

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on one particular photo—a shot of Robin at a crime scene, jaw clenched and brows furrowed. The effect of Harry's murderous little pastimes which Robin couldn't help but trail after. The thought made Harry grin.

***

The fight below played out like a symphony, each note sharp and unrelenting.

Harry perched in his usual place on the rooftop, fingers drumming idly against the ledge. His eyes were locked on Robin, the others blurring into insignificance.

Louis was flames and shadow, light and rage. Even his missteps had a kind of brilliance, rough edges catching the dim Gotham glow. Harry knew the movements by now, could predict them with unnerving precision. Every punch. Every spin. But knowing didn't dull the pull. If anything, it made it stronger.

He leaned forward, his breath misting in the cold air as he watched.

And then it happened.

The crowbar came down before Robin could even register the thug was behind him. The impact sent him crumpling to his knees, the fight knocked out of him in an instant.

For a moment, the world stilled.

Harry's chest clenched so tightly he couldn't breathe. Something cracked and unravelled inside him and his body moved before his mind caught up.

It wasn't a choice. There wasn't thought—only instinct, red and searing.

Harry was on the ground in seconds, his shadow swallowing up the scene as the remaining thugs scattered in terror. He barely registered them, their retreat nothing but noise as he closed the distance.

Louis was a figure in the dim alley light. His back lay flat against the pavement, his head lolling to the side. A thin streak of blood traced a line down his temple, gleaming cruelly in the faint glow of the streetlamp.

Harry knelt, his gloved hand hovering over Louis' neck as if touching him would shatter some unspoken rule of the universe.

It shouldn't matter—he shouldn't care—but the second his fingers brushed the delicate column of Louis' throat, finding the faint, steady thrum of his pulse, Harry let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding.

"You're alive," he whispered, the words teetering on the edge of something unnamed.

And that was it. The final thread snapped and he was gone. Whatever control Harry had pretended to keep slipped through his fingers like smoke.

Up close, Louis was magnificent.

His skin was pale under the mask, kissed only by the flush of exertion. The line of his jaw was sharp enough to cut, his lips parted just enough to show the faintest glint of teeth. Even in stillness, there was something electric about him.

"Remarkable," Harry murmured, the word slipping free before he could stop it.

His hand moved of its own accord, sliding across Louis' cheek with a gentleness that startled even him. His fingers ghosted along the smooth curve of his face, careful not to disturb the mask. The idea of revealing what was beneath it was tempting, intoxicating but too soon. No, not yet.

This wasn't about identity. Not tonight.

Harry's thumb brushed against the bloodied line on his temple and the world narrowed down to the boy in front of him.

Mine, the thought snarled in the back of his mind.

He leaned closer, so close he could feel Louis' shallow breaths. His arms moved to lift Louis, to gather him close. Louis' weight was nothing, light and fragile against Harry's chest. The protective part of him surged, warring with the darker whisper, take him. He belongs to you.

It would be so easy to disappear into the shadows with him, to keep him, guard him, have him.

Harry clenched his jaw, forcing the thought down, quashing the near-overwhelming urge to make Louis his own. His steps quickened as he carried him toward a quiet corner of the alley, just out of view but close enough to be found.

He propped Louis carefully against the wall, his fingers lingered, brushing against Louis' hair. He stayed crouched there for a moment, studying Louis as if trying to memorise every line, every detail.

Harry's hands twitched at Louis' sides, itching to pull him back, to not let go. But his voice was steadier now, a quiet, almost tender promise escaping his lips.

"See you soon."

With one last glance, hungry and reluctant, Harry rose to his feet. The sirens began to howl in the distance. He couldn't linger any longer.

Harry stepped into the shadows and disappeared.

But the thought stayed with him, burning at the edges of his mind. Soon. He would see Louis again. That was a promise.

***

9 months ago

The moment Harry saw him up close, alive and breathing, the world shifted on its axis.

The first thing Harry noticed was how small he looked. Vulnerable. Soft where everything around him was hard and unforgiving. His face was flushed, framed by a mess of golden-brown hair— he looked entirely out of place here, in this twisted, chaotic world Harry thrived in. And yet, Harry couldn't imagine a better sight.

Louis was striking. Every curve and angle of his face seemed purpose-built to ensnare Harry's focus. Those wide, frightened eyes behind the mask shouldn't have been so beautiful, yet Harry couldn't tear his gaze away.

I should speak. Say something. Anything. Just keep him here.

"Don't be scared," he said softly, letting his tone carry a mix of gentleness and command.

Because if you knew what I was thinking—what I really wanted—you'd have every reason to be terrified. He studied Louis' face with a quiet intensity, noting every subtle expression, every quiver of his lips, every movement of his lashes.

He couldn't help but hum in approval. "Well, aren't you precious?"

More than precious. Perfect.

"C-can I go?" Louis stammered.

Harry's breath hitched. Oh, his voice... A thrill ran down his spine. His smile stayed easy, unreadable but inside he was unravelling. That voice—he wanted to close his eyes just to savour the sound. Do that again. Say something else. Anything else.

"Please," Louis added, like a soft exhale.

Please? That single word sank into Harry's chest like a hook, sharp and inescapable. He bit the inside of his cheek to suppress a groan.

"Now hold on just a second, Robin," Harry said smoothly, taking a small step closer. Every move he made was calculated but his heart raced out of sync with his calm exterior.

He was desperate for Louis to respond. To do anything. Keep talking. Keep looking at me like that.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to formally introduce myself." The words were laced with the false air of politeness. What he really wanted to do was reach out and touch Louis' face, tilt his chin up just enough to see him fully. "Can I do that?" Harry pressed, cocking his head, teasing and testing him. "Introduce myself?"

Louis blinked at him, and Harry caught the briefest hint of defiance warring with fear. "I know who you are," he said softly, his voice holding steady despite the fear laced in it.

"You know me as the enemy of Batman," Harry continued, letting the title drip from his lips as though it bored him. He had no intention of being confined to a role in someone else's story. Especially not in Louis' mind. "I'm so much more than that," he added, each word an unspoken promise.

"Okay," Louis agreed cautiously. "Introduce yourself."

It hit him like a spark to gasoline. Louis wasn't running. Not yet. Oh, there's a fire in you, isn't there? I just need to bring it out.

"I'm The Joker, darling," Harry said softly, the nickname landing like a caress.

When he extended his hand, a flicker of uncertainty crossed Louis' face but Harry remained still, waiting. Louis didn't take his hand. He just blinked at him, hesitant, unsure. Harry's smile faltered for the briefest of moments before he pushed through the disappointment.

Take it. Touch me. Just for a second, let me feel you.

"And it's an absolute pleasure to meet you."

But Louis didn't move. He only blinked at Harry again, his expression frozen somewhere between fear and defiance.

"Come on, sweetheart," Harry coaxed, his voice dipping lower, warmer. He tilted his head ever so slightly, offering his best approximation of sincerity. I'm trying to be good here, really. Don't make me force it. "I won't bite." A pause, then, "At least not outside of the bedroom."

Louis recoiled in response sending heat rushing through Harry's veins. How was this boy so devastating without even trying?

"Shake my hand," Harry said more firmly, dropping the veneer of softness just enough to coax Louis into obedience.

You'll do it, won't you? Prove that you're brave. Prove that you feel it too—this pull between us.

Louis flinched slightly but, at last, he reached out, his smaller hand brushing against Harry's. The moment their skin met, Harry's breath stuttered, an electric jolt racing through him. Finally. Warm. Soft. Fragile.

"There we go, sweetheart," Harry murmured and before Louis could even think to pull away, Harry tightened his grip and tugged him forward. The smaller boy stumbled straight into his chest. "Oops," he muttered, watching the way Louis froze in place, his body tensed but unmoving.

Their faces were close now—so close Harry could feel the whisper of Louis' breath against his lips.

"My bad, pretty," Harry added, savouring the faint, dizzying pull of power as Louis remained pressed against him, too stunned to move.

"C-can I please go now?" Louis' voice cracked and it was so sweetly broken that Harry had to grit his teeth to hold back the growl building in his throat.

"Don't be scared, darling," Harry said, forcing his voice to soften, to carry a sweetness that masked the aching need clawing at him from within. "I'm not going to hurt someone as pretty as you." Not unless you want me to. And god, I'd still make it so lovely for you.

Louis' eyes darted up to his, wide and glassy, and Harry thought he could drown in them. Why are you doing this to me? How are you doing this to me?

"Why are you doing this?" Louis whispered, his voice trembling with a frightened innocence that only fed Harry's want. "I-I don't like it."

Harry's pulse slammed against his skin. Don't say that. You do, you will. Give me time to show you. Time to fix that fear into something better.

"Not to make you afraid," Harry murmured, though every inch of his body wanted to lean closer, to press into Louis until the fear melted away into something warmer, something mutual.

Louis shifted, his instincts screaming at him to pull back, though it did little to loosen Harry's grip.

"Can you please let go?" he asked, his voice breaking on the edges, desperation spilling out between his lips.

The plea rooted Harry in place, his resolve wavering as every fibre of his being screamed at him to hold on. To take. To keep. You feel it too, don't you? That pull? That heat? Don't run, sweetheart. Please don't run.

He hesitated, staring down at Louis, memorising every detail—those expressive eyes, the slope of his cheek, the perfect curve of his lips as they quivered with uncertainty. It struck him like a cruel joke: how something so delicate could upend him this way. He thought of all the reasons to keep him here, within reach, where no one else could take what he already claimed as his own.

You're already mine, can't you feel it? Stay here and I'll make you believe it too.

He forced himself to loosen his grip, though it felt like tearing his own skin apart. He stepped back, just enough to give Louis a few shallow breaths of space. "If you promise to see me again," he said, though his voice wavered, betraying the fire simmering underneath his control, "come to the other side of town."

Louis shook his head quickly, panic darting through his expression. "I don't think I can," he whispered, trembling.

Don't say that.

Harry sighed, frustration rippling through the controlled mask he wore. "If you don't come back," he said, the weight in his voice thick and deliberate, "I can't let you leave."

Louis' eyes widened, lips parting as the threat settled over him. Fear sparked anew and while a darker part of Harry savoured the look, the rest of him screamed inwardly. No. Don't look at me like that, sweetheart. Just trust me. Just come back to me.

"I can't," Louis stressed, his voice laced with desperation now. "I-I can't get there, he won't let me."

He. Batman.

Harry's head tilted, his grin turning sharp despite the ache in his chest. There was someone else, someone in his way. Fine. He'd deal with that later. For now, Robin was here, close enough to touch, close enough to pull into the gravity of whatever bound them.

"Then we can go somewhere else," Harry offered softly. He leaned in again, his tone slipping into something just shy of a plea. "Somewhere closer to your side of town."

Louis blinked, shaking his head faster this time, panic setting in again. "I can't," he repeated. His voice cracked like a brittle shell and Harry thought it would undo him entirely. "Please don't make me. He'll find out."

He didn't push. Not yet. He held onto the tendrils of his patience with a grip that might as well have been bleeding.

"We can go anywhere you like," Harry said quietly. Gently. The words dripped from his tongue like a promise laced with gold. "Just see me again, sweetheart. I'll make it worth your time."

Louis froze, lips parting as though his mind had stumbled into a flicker of consideration. Harry caught the faintest flash of something—curiosity, hesitation, perhaps even temptation.

Finally, Louis spoke. "You can see me if you can find me," he said, the faintest trace of daring hidden behind his soft tone. "If you find me again, I'll give you all the time you desire."

Harry's chest tightened with triumph, his lips twitching into a smirk. Oh, he is perfect. That playful little promise would replay in his mind over and over until he saw him again.

"Game on," Harry whispered, leaning close to let the words graze against the warmth of Louis' neck. I'll find you, sweetheart. No question about it.

Finally, reluctantly he let go, his fingers itching with the ghost of Louis' warmth.

"C-can I go?" Louis asked again, his voice a fragile whisper in the heavy night air.

Oh, he's asking for permission now? Harry's smile spread, sharp and slow, as he forced himself to create even more distance. The loss was excruciating, every step back like a wound carved into his skin.

"I'll see you later, darling," he murmured.

He reached out, his fingers wrapping gently around Louis' trembling hand. The size of it against his own made something feral twist in Harry's chest.

Louis flinched at the contact, just the smallest, involuntary jolt—but he didn't pull away. That hesitation sent a thrill surging through Harry's veins. The heat of Louis' skin seemed to seep into him, tethering him in ways that felt eternal and irrevocable.

Look how perfectly you fit, sweetheart, Harry thought, a smirk flickering across his lips. Even if you're afraid now, that'll change. You'll learn. You'll come to me.

Gently, Harry lifted Louis' hand, letting his thumb ghost across the knuckles in an intimate sweep. Each second dragged slowly and deliberately, savouring every millimetre of contact as if to mark the moment permanently into his memory. His lips hovered, brushing just close enough for Louis to feel the phantom heat of his breath.

Louis' breathing hitched, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His wide eyes flicked between Harry's mouth and his own captured hand, his lips trembling but silent. There was no defiance in him, only a stunned paralysis and something Harry almost dared to believe might be wonder.

And then Harry pressed the kiss.

Soft but unyielding, the meeting of lips and knuckles was featherlight in touch but searing in intent. Harry held his mouth there, slightly too long, enough to make it feel less like a fleeting gesture and more like a claim. His claim.

His lips curved against Louis' hand as a dark satisfaction filled his chest. I've kissed you. That's it now. You're mine. You'll think about this. About me. Every time you look at your hand, you'll feel this moment.

A promise, sealed.

Louis exhaled shakily, a tiny, shuddering breath escaping from his parted lips. His face flushed, pink rising up his neck, his uncertainty shifting into something Harry couldn't quite name—something softer, though still tangled in fear.

Harry pulled back slowly, unwilling to break contact fully. His fingertips brushed against the delicate underside of Louis' wrist as he let the boy's hand drop. The brief loss of warmth clawed at him. Every instinct screamed at him to take, to keep, to own.

And then he stepped away completely, his own shadow swallowing the space between them until Louis was left alone, trembling under the weight of their first meeting.

***

It had started as fascination. No—fixation. He knew that now. The moment he first laid eyes on Louis, something primal inside him had stirred, an undeniable pull, something feral and instinctive that whispered mine, mine, mine before he even knew his name.

The fire had been there from the beginning, crackling beneath the surface of Louis' every move. The way he fought—so sharp, so precise, so alive—had ignited something in Harry that he hadn't felt in years. Maybe ever. He should've snuffed it out then, should've let it burn itself out before it became something worse. But he hadn't. He'd watched. He'd waited. He'd let himself be consumed by it.

And then, he had him.

Not in the way he wanted. Not at first. It had been slow, a game of patience, of pushing and pulling. The deal had been a necessity—Louis was going to break eventually, that much was inevitable, but Harry had wanted to be there when it happened. He had wanted to be the one to strip him down, to rebuild him. To bend him until he saw what Harry saw, until he understood.

But something had shifted along the way.

Louis had always been a fighter, from the very moment that they'd met- even perhaps before that. But the way he had fought Harry—every word, every look, every moment of defiance, the way he spat back in Harry's face even when he was bloodied and bleeding the night of the blackout. Even when he was bound and gagged on the floor of the helicopter. Even when he was on his knees and helpless—it had set something alight inside of Harry. Something dark and hungry.

Louis was intoxicating. He was the kind of beautiful that came from fire, from resilience, from refusing to bend even when everything inside him screamed to give in.

And God, how Harry wanted to make him give in.

With time, Louis became more confident, more self-assured in a way that Harry knew would only make his eventual submission all the more satisfactory. To see that fire burn, to watch it flicker before it went out altogether would have been one of Harry's most valuable successes. But the flame never dulled, just got brighter. More fierce, more tangible as Louis continued to resist his pull.

They worked together like they had been made for it.

It had surprised Harry at first, how easily Louis fit into the chaos he created. Where Harry was all impulse, Louis was precision. Where Harry thundered, Louis struck like lightning—fast, controlled, and devastating. And the worst part? Harry liked it. He liked the way they moved in tandem, the way Louis anticipated his next move before Harry even made it, the way he could keep up, push back, push him. It was an unspoken balance neither of them acknowledged out loud but in the heat of the moment—gunfire in the distance, adrenaline in their veins—it was undeniable.

Louis was good. Better than good. He was the perfect partner. And that should have been enough.

Harry was never good at taking what he was given. He wasn't satisfied with having Louis halfway and the moment Louis strayed, even slightly, Harry couldn't help but feel like he was losing him. And that jealousy, that fear is what made Harry snap. It's what forced him to kill Jenson Marks the second he saw the man lay his fingers against Louis' skin.

Harry, please. Louis had begged him. Those two little words, raw and bleeding, made Harry hesitate more than anything else. He blinked, tilting his head as he studied the boy. For a heartbeat, he considered it. Just for him. Just because of those eyes, full of something that could break even him.

And then Louis looked at Jenson again and the moment was gone.

He had never cared about taking a life before. It had always been easy. But when Louis had looked at him, blue eyes wide with horror, something in Harry had curled in on itself.

Because Louis had started to see him. Not the Joker. Him.

Before the incident, Louis' eyes had softened when he thought Harry wasn't looking. His touch had hesitated, lingered, like he wasn't sure if he should push Harry away or pull him closer. And fuck, Harry had seen it, felt it in every interaction. Louis was slipping, slowly, carefully, but surely.

And then he ran.

Of course, Harry had chased him- always would. But he'd also scared Louis in a way that he hadn't seen since the early days of their encounters. He'd scared him so much that he was willing to throw himself out of a helicopter just to escape. And Harry's frustration just about snapped as he pulled Louis to safety and the boy still trembled in his presence.

Don't look at me like that, sweetheart. You don't get to terrify me and then act like I'm the monster here.

It got better. Harry balanced just the right amount of softness and strictness to keep Louis on side. Or so he thought.

But then Harley had informed him that Louis was sneaking out to work with Batman. After their soft touches and even softer words. After everything. How could you do this to me? Can't you see that we're perfect together? Can't you see that I'm the only one who can make you feel alive?

The second deal burned stronger. It wasn't just a punishment for Louis' betrayal. The month was almost over and he could feel Louis slipping away, pulling away to places that Harry couldn't reach, couldn't go, couldn't follow. And so another deal was struck. One shrouded in desperation on both parts. A deal sealed with a kiss.

Oh, that kiss.

When Louis kissed him, he could feel the pain on his tongue. He could feel the promise that lay helpless against his insides. The oath that might as well have been written in blood. No more running, I'm yours.

The power, the control was dizzying. But Harry waited. He gave Louis time to adjust. Time to understand that this was the only way he'd ever thrive.

They worked better, faster upon their return and he knew that Louis could feel it too. Caught him smiling at the end of their missions, found him more willing, more eager to prove himself when things went wrong.

And things did go wrong. Louis had been stabbed. And Harry had been furious.

Not in the way he usually was—not in the way that burned hot and fast and deadly. No, this was different. This was suffocating, an ache deep in his ribs, something raw and unfamiliar. He could have lost him. The thought alone had made his hands shake. It had made his grip tighten around O'Neil until his skin turned blue; it had made him unleash hell in a way he hadn't in a long time. He had torn that man apart.

Things shifted again and Harry told himself that it wasn't a problem. It was only that his motives had changed slightly. Sure, it would have been satisfying to put out the flame that was Robin, but to watch it burn only for him? Well, that would be quite magnificent.

But then Louis did give in. 'I'm broken, isn't that what you wanted?' he'd asked through empty, pained eyes. And that should have been the end of it. That should have been the moment Harry proved to himself that this was just another game, another piece in his collection. He'd broken Louis, stripped him free of his fight, his fire. But when Louis' spark disappeared, it felt like something had been ripped from Harry. He had felt it, physically, an absence so tangible it made his chest tight. It made him furious. That moment had changed something—tilted the game in a way Harry hadn't been prepared for.

And Louis had seen it.

Harry had seen the recognition dawn in Louis' eyes, the realisation of what he meant to Harry. That slow incredulous parting of lips, the soft furrow of his brow as he realised what he had become to Harry. More than a game, more than a puppet for his entertainment.

And yet, still, Louis fought him. Even after the masquerade auction, after Harry had gifted him the Wayne drive and shown him that he no longer wanted anything in return, Louis still fought. But there was something different in his defiance now. Something quieter. Something weaker. Like he wasn't sure if he was fighting Harry anymore or just himself.

Harry had never been generous. Control meant knowing what you could give—and what you could withhold. But when he had slipped the Wayne drive into Louis' hand, a whisper of cold metal between fingers, he hadn't thought of power. He had thought of Louis' lips parting in astonishment, his eyes narrowing in suspicion, his hands trembling with some reaction Harry couldn't predict. He had wanted to see Louis' walls falter again, wanted to crack them, maybe just this once, without blood or force.

And then there was the motel.

Harry had told himself he wouldn't push. That this was enough—to have Louis here, close, in his space. But fuck, it wasn't. It never was.

Louis' movements beside him were what had pulled Harry from sleep, small and hesitant, disrupting the fragile stillness of the early morning. Harry kept his eyes closed, his body heavy with sleep but his mind slowly piecing the situation together.

Louis had shifted again, so careful and deliberate that Harry had to fight back a smile. You're panicking, aren't you, sweetheart? he'd thought, imagining the look on Louis' face as he realised how close they'd ended up.

The thought made Harry want to laugh. He should have laughed but something deeper tugged at him, quieter, unsettling. A yearning he didn't quite know how to name.

After their usual push and pull, he'd felt Louis relax against him. He had felt the moment the tension bled out of him, the moment his body melted into Harry's. And God, Harry had wanted to ruin him. He had wanted to press his mouth to every inch of his skin, wanted to devour every shaky breath, every noise he made. Tell him how good he was for letting go.

And then Louis had made that sound.

That tiny, involuntary whine as he'd relaxed against Harry. It sent electricity shooting through his veins, made his breath catch, made his fingers tighten against Louis' spine as if to keep him there, to hold him together. If only Louis knew what he did to him, what hearing him like that did to him.

Harry had forced himself to stay still. To keep his touch gentle, to let Louis come to him. But it was agony. The warmth of his bare skin beneath Harry's fingertips, the way his muscles twitched beneath his touch, the way he sighed softly into his neck—Harry had never known restraint like this. He had never wanted restraint like this.

Because he wanted Louis to choose him.

Not out of fear, not because he had nowhere else to go. He wanted Louis to see it, to understand it, to accept it.

And Harry knew—he knew—that Louis was already slipping.

The way he hadn't pulled away. The way he had let Harry soothe him. The way he had finally, finally, let himself feel it. For one, single, perfect moment, Harry had seen it. The shift. The surrender.

Harry had played it off, kept it light, teasing. Even after he let himself drown in the cold water of the shower, even after they'd let themselves play pretend at normalcy in that diner. But inside he had been burning. Because Louis was closer now. Closer than he had ever been.

And then it happened. The moment everything changed. The moment the game stopped being a game.

The moment Louis kissed him.

Harry's world tipped as though everything he'd built, everything he'd meticulously controlled, no longer mattered. It wasn't leverage, it wasn't a game—just the unrelenting truth that Louis had chosen him and the power of it left Harry breathless.

Louis chose him.

For a split second, Harry couldn't breathe, his thoughts a chaotic mess of disbelief and wonder. But before he could fully grasp it, it was gone.

Louis tore himself away.

The absence was jarring, like cold water splashing onto his skin. Harry's hands hovered in the empty space where Louis had been, fingers still curling against the void as if trying to hold onto the ghost of that kiss.

No, no, no. Not again. Don't run.

Not now, not yet. Not when he knew that kiss was something sacred, something precious, something he wasn't ready to let go of.

All of a sudden this wasn't about winning anymore. This was about Louis.

This was about their push and pull. The unspoken language that only they understood. It was about the fire. About Louis' stubborn defiance every time he refused to bend to Harry's will. It was about the way that Louis challenged him, the way he fought, the way he saw through Harry's mask in ways that nobody else could.

It was the ache of wanting more than just a battle of wills, more than just fleeting touches and stolen glances across the room. It was about craving something real, something that only existed in the space between the two of them.

It was about the loyalty that Louis was slowly giving him, about the loyalty that Harry had earned from him piece by piece until it became the foundation Harry hadn't realised he was leaning on. It was the way that Louis made him feel alive, exposed, undone.

And that kiss. That one, desperate kiss. It wasn't just a surrender, it was something that carried the weight of every moment leading up to it. A promise that burned so brightly, so brilliantly, that Harry couldn't even look at it directly.

It was about all of it. Their fight, their hunger. The way that Harry felt that even after all of it, there was still something more to give. It was about them. Flawed, imperfect, beautiful.

And Harry was in trouble.

:') I got the sudden urge to write from Harry's pov and then I couldn't stop lol. So, this was kinda a bonus chapter <3

What did we think?

Lowkey that one part was giving 'O, speak again, bright angel' from Romeo and Juliet.

Vote? Comment? Ilygsm. Mwah x