Hareton Earnshaw Grown-Up. The Wuthering Heights Estate. Tension and Tea. Hareton Earnshaw is like an emo kid. Tension. Age Difference. Loneliness. Hareton Earnshaw is an attractive teen. longing looks. Silent possesiveness
Heathcliff returned to the manor, which had grown more dilapidated and lonely. Yet in May, a few sunny days appeared, when even the walls of the house were bathed in soft light.
The dark-haired man felt even taller in this house. Over the past few years, his growth mark on the door could have easily been extended by ten centimeters. But the marks had long since faded — Heathcliff noticed this when he entered the kitchen.
His elegant clothing rustled softly as he moved through the room. In the back of his mind, he remembered how, as a child, he had always entered rooms noisily. His firm footsteps disrupted the stillness, and his dark, unkempt figure brought unease.
Heathcliff ran his hand along the windowsill, shaking off the dust. The sunlight fell on his hand and into his eyes. Feeling the warmth, he stepped back.
Moments later, a young gentleman appeared in the doorway. Heathcliff hardly recognized him — when he had left, Hareton had been very small.
His dark hair echoed that of his mother. His face was gloomier than Catherine’s or Hindley’s. He stood stiffly, his small shoulders drawn together. His eyes were grayer than the blue lakes of the fair Katie.
Hareton looked at him suspiciously and tilted his head. There was tension in his posture, but his body leaned slightly forward, and his eyes did not flinch.
— Heathcliff? — his voice was soft.
He asked as if he had seen him many times or heard of him, yet Heathcliff could barely recall ever paying him much attention while in the house. Of course, he had held him when he was very small or watched over him when necessary, and even when he was a teenager, but he had not spoken to him.
Still, Hareton’s eyes watched him with curiosity and expectation.
Heathcliff looked at him intently in return.
— Yes, — he nodded. — Are you alone here?
Hareton turned, his shoulders relaxing as if some of the tension had eased. He swallowed, feeling the dryness in his throat. His eyes roamed the room actively, as they usually did in social situations. The boy’s posture was still too rigid, making Heathcliff think he rarely saw strangers.
— For now, yes. But my sister will be here soon, — he answered hurriedly.
His figure shrank slightly, and he disappeared into the doorway. He felt he was probably of little interest to Heathcliff. The name Catherine passed bitterly through his lips as he remembered all the unpleasant stories the nanny had told him.
Hareton stood by the bed and removed his vest to change. A wave of warmth ran through him, and he tried not to think of what the imminent meeting between his sister and Heathcliff might bring. In his room, he felt safer and took a deep breath. In front of the mirror, he put on a new, lighter shirt and adjusted his soft hair.
He returned to his studies, occasionally hearing Heathcliff’s enormous footsteps in the corridor. Outside came the sounds of preparations and bustling servants. Hareton, curled up, wrote a note in his diary with a quill.
A few moments later, just as he thought he would have some peace, he heard a knock. Hareton straightened his back and froze, eyes darting toward the door. Goosebumps ran along his skin, and the quill in his hand trembled.
Seeing Heathcliff’s tall figure, he shrank back again. His dark eyes, calm yet formidable like a demon’s, looked at him once more.
— I’ve brought you something, Hareton. Would you like to have some tea with me? — he asked.
Heathcliff’s voice no longer sounded as cold as it had at the beginning of their meeting. It sounded almost friendly, as if they had been acquainted for a long time, or even family.
Hareton smiled for a moment, and warmth spread across his pale face. Heathcliff followed his gaze, waiting, his head slightly turned.
— All right, — Hareton said, turning away again and hunching over his books. When the door closed, he slowly pressed his lips together, feeling his chest rise and fall more evenly. The air coming through the window seemed fresher.
Hareton felt his legs move uncertainly but in a predetermined direction as he headed to the sitting room. He did not expect anything good from Heathcliff, and he should not let him in emotionally, no matter how interesting he seemed. Nor should Hareton allow his gentle, quiet heart to attach itself to any wounded hero.
“He senses any weakness. Suppress it, Hareton,” — he told himself, adjusting his sleeve. His slender legs moved across the floor almost silently. For a moment, he felt like a tiny insect compared to the tall and massive Heathcliff. The man stared at him, and Hareton felt his gaze. A cold wave of tension spread through his body.
Hareton sat down nearby, giving him a slight smile he had practiced many times before.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/81954131
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