The sound of scampering feet caused Harry to lift his eyes from his book and frown a little. He turned his head to the door, showing for the first time that his curls were bound at the back in a kind of beaded net. There were also a lot more of them than Louis remembered. He relaxed a little. Anything involving hair extensions meant an elaborate prank. He had to admit he was impressed; usually by now Harry would be blowing kisses or trying to clamber into Louis' lap or at the very least making a suggestive face. He was clearly very devoted to this prank.
The door open and Zayn and Niall blew inside, skirts swirling around their feet. Zayn's dress was blue while Niall's was pink, whereas Harry was in a muted shade of cream, but they were all designed the same: a band under where their boobs would be, a straight skirt falling down from it, and little puffed sleeves. Niall's hair had been teased into a furzebush of tiny ringlets around his red face and Zayn - Louis muffled a snigger - Zayn's fauxhawk had been combed down into smooth plaits around his head. The lack of distraction made his eyelashes stand out like tiny spiders.
"Were you running?" asked Harry, his tone severe.
"Sorry," said Niall, looking contrite. Zayn dropped into one of the spindly chairs and flounced his skirts.
"We were hurrying," he said. "In a ladylike fashion, because we had news for you, Jane. But if you're not interested, we shall refrain from telling you."
"I desire no news conveyed in such a fashion," said Harry. "Please, Lydia, try to maintain some decorum."
"Mr Bingley is on his way to see you!" burst out Niall. Louis watched Harry's face turn a sunset of reds, before he passed a hand - one finger bedecked with a pearl ring - before his face. Louis wondered who Mr Bingley was and why he made the shameless Harry blush like that. Louis had never been able to make him blush like that. He frowned.
Before he had a chance to analyse his reaction further, Liam stalked through the door. He was wearing the ugliest dress of all, a mustard yellow with chicken-pox spots and a fussy little lace collar buttoned right up to his throat. His hair was twisted into a bun straight back from his head and he was wearing either Louis' or Zayn's glasses, which must have been making him dizzy. He was clutching a cardboard folder bound with string to his chest.
"Please, could you be silent for just a few minutes?" he said. "Mama has the headache again and she will not let me practice once she awakes. This noise is enough to wake a dozen Mamas."
"More likely your music caused her headache in the first place," said Zayn. "I have the headache just thinking about all those scales."
"You could do with more application in your life," said Harry.
"So Mr Bingley," said Zayn loudly, as if this ended the argument. "He is coming to shoot with Papa any moment now."
"Who is coming to shoot with me?" Simon Cowell, dressed in gym knickers and tights - as well as other things, like a wedding-y coat and a shirt with frills on, but Louis couldn't get past tights - strolled into the room. "If you have invited one of those dunderheaded soldiers, Miss Lydia, it will not only be my permission they are lacking when they leave."
"No, indeed," said Zayn, sounding shocked. "Why, they get to shoot real people, not silly birds! I am talking of Mr Bingley."
"Ah," said Simon, making a face like someone had come on the X Factor stage to sing the Barney song. Off key. "Now there is a word I am rather tired of hearing."
"What is that, my love?" asked Cheryl Cole, pushing him further into the room so she could swan past and sink on to a sofa. Her dress was a searing shade of orange silk, trimmed with dyed-blue feathers. It looked like her usual get-up for a night on the judging panel. The clatter of hooves outside the room made her sit up straight and pull at the lace cap that sat on her voluminous hairstyle, like a tiny ship adrift on a vast brown sea. "Lord! Don't tell me that's Mr Bingley."
In all the fuss and chat about this clearly vital to the prank Mr Bingley, Louis hadn't noticed Harry getting up and sneaking around behind Louis. But Harry's hot breath, faintly scented with peppermint, was so familiar that Louis leaned back into it instinctively. Harry snaked a hand over his shoulder and Louis reached up, twining their fingers together.
"I don't know how I shall contrive to be calm," breathed Harry. It was a far cry from his usual banter, which ran along the lines of, 'That one, three rows up and to the left, I'd like to come on her tits,' but Louis admired his committment to sparkle motion.
"You'll be fine," he said, pressing his cheek to Harry's. This was often a cue for Harry to smack a kiss there, but Harry just squeezed his hand tighter and sighed. It was a weirdly vulnerable sound; Louis' stomach clenched.
"You are my rock, Lizzie," said Harry.
Louis nearly broke Harry's nose, he whipped his head around so fast. "What did you call me?" Harry looked confused, but a sudden stab of pain distracted Louis. Whatever he was wearing was pulling tight across his chest, too constrictive to let him twist around in his chair and stretch his arm back the way he wanted.
He looked down, which was when he realised that he was wearing a dress too.
The door open and Zayn and Niall blew inside, skirts swirling around their feet. Zayn's dress was blue while Niall's was pink, whereas Harry was in a muted shade of cream, but they were all designed the same: a band under where their boobs would be, a straight skirt falling down from it, and little puffed sleeves. Niall's hair had been teased into a furzebush of tiny ringlets around his red face and Zayn - Louis muffled a snigger - Zayn's fauxhawk had been combed down into smooth plaits around his head. The lack of distraction made his eyelashes stand out like tiny spiders.
"Were you running?" asked Harry, his tone severe.
"Sorry," said Niall, looking contrite. Zayn dropped into one of the spindly chairs and flounced his skirts.
"We were hurrying," he said. "In a ladylike fashion, because we had news for you, Jane. But if you're not interested, we shall refrain from telling you."
"I desire no news conveyed in such a fashion," said Harry. "Please, Lydia, try to maintain some decorum."
"Mr Bingley is on his way to see you!" burst out Niall. Louis watched Harry's face turn a sunset of reds, before he passed a hand - one finger bedecked with a pearl ring - before his face. Louis wondered who Mr Bingley was and why he made the shameless Harry blush like that. Louis had never been able to make him blush like that. He frowned.
Before he had a chance to analyse his reaction further, Liam stalked through the door. He was wearing the ugliest dress of all, a mustard yellow with chicken-pox spots and a fussy little lace collar buttoned right up to his throat. His hair was twisted into a bun straight back from his head and he was wearing either Louis' or Zayn's glasses, which must have been making him dizzy. He was clutching a cardboard folder bound with string to his chest.
"Please, could you be silent for just a few minutes?" he said. "Mama has the headache again and she will not let me practice once she awakes. This noise is enough to wake a dozen Mamas."
"More likely your music caused her headache in the first place," said Zayn. "I have the headache just thinking about all those scales."
"You could do with more application in your life," said Harry.
"So Mr Bingley," said Zayn loudly, as if this ended the argument. "He is coming to shoot with Papa any moment now."
"Who is coming to shoot with me?" Simon Cowell, dressed in gym knickers and tights - as well as other things, like a wedding-y coat and a shirt with frills on, but Louis couldn't get past tights - strolled into the room. "If you have invited one of those dunderheaded soldiers, Miss Lydia, it will not only be my permission they are lacking when they leave."
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"Ah," said Simon, making a face like someone had come on the X Factor stage to sing the Barney song. Off key. "Now there is a word I am rather tired of hearing."
"What is that, my love?" asked Cheryl Cole, pushing him further into the room so she could swan past and sink on to a sofa. Her dress was a searing shade of orange silk, trimmed with dyed-blue feathers. It looked like her usual get-up for a night on the judging panel. The clatter of hooves outside the room made her sit up straight and pull at the lace cap that sat on her voluminous hairstyle, like a tiny ship adrift on a vast brown sea. "Lord! Don't tell me that's Mr Bingley."
In all the fuss and chat about this clearly vital to the prank Mr Bingley, Louis hadn't noticed Harry getting up and sneaking around behind Louis. But Harry's hot breath, faintly scented with peppermint, was so familiar that Louis leaned back into it instinctively. Harry snaked a hand over his shoulder and Louis reached up, twining their fingers together.
"I don't know how I shall contrive to be calm," breathed Harry. It was a far cry from his usual banter, which ran along the lines of, 'That one, three rows up and to the left, I'd like to come on her tits,' but Louis admired his committment to sparkle motion.
"You'll be fine," he said, pressing his cheek to Harry's. This was often a cue for Harry to smack a kiss there, but Harry just squeezed his hand tighter and sighed. It was a weirdly vulnerable sound; Louis' stomach clenched.
"You are my rock, Lizzie," said Harry.
Louis nearly broke Harry's nose, he whipped his head around so fast. "What did you call me?" Harry looked confused, but a sudden stab of pain distracted Louis. Whatever he was wearing was pulling tight across his chest, too constrictive to let him twist around in his chair and stretch his arm back the way he wanted.
He looked down, which was when he realised that he was wearing a dress too.
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