Turquoise (L.S)

XXVIII

It's ok guys. You can yell at me. I'm awful with deadlines lol. 

Sorry it's taken so long. I've been dealing with mono (shoutout to me for catching it when I hadn't kissed someone in months) and then I procrastinated. oops?

Either way here it is! The penultimate chapter to Turquoise. Enjoy!!

Don't forget to leave likes and comments as it keeps me motivated, and tell your friends!!

Also I thought I'd let you know that I will be doing the fairy fic next, as well as a surprise one which I've already started working on!

Ok love you byeeeee

As Louis left the shop, he clutched the precious book in his right hand and tried to speculate why it held such significance to his former lover.

He was nervous and dread fuelled his thoughts. What if it revealed some evil, cruel part of Harry? What if Gatsby was some horrible character? Worst still, what if Harry simply liked the book and it held no deeper meaning? All these various theories and ideas raced through Louis's mind like an Olympic sprinter and he clutched the book tighter. It was almost as though he hoped its energy would transfer to him and he would finally understand Harry's mind.

The drive home was painful. Each winding road seemed to spread further into a never-ending spiral of nothingness as the singer broke every speed limit, not caring about his safety. He could not slow down. Not when Harry's mind waited for him in the pages of a cheaply-made paperback. As he drove, he watched his surroundings. Swallows darted back and forth in the dull grey sky, their wings swooping and creating patterns with their unusual motions and dew drops fell from trimmed hedges at the side of the road like delicate diamonds falling towards the Earth. Not a single soul walked the lanes and cars sat stationary at the side of deserted streets. It seemed that the world was standing still, waiting, eager for Louis to finally do what he should of done from the start.

When he finally arrived home, Louis darted inside, narrowly avoiding another downpour. His house was much the same as it had been when Harry had been there and ghosts of his laugh, his kisses and his music echoed through the walls: a constant reminder of them.

They were now what they once were: strangers.

Ignoring the feelings of melancholy and dissolution of a former life, Louis seated himself next to a window and opened the book. He'd ensured to find a copy that has those disturbing eyes: the Eyes of Eckleburg, as Harry had once described them.

Then he read. He read of the parties and the chaos and the debauchery and the decadence. He read of the amorous entanglement, the illicit attraction and surreptitious acts. He read of Nick and Tom and Gatsby and Daisy. He read the lines that Harry himself had quoted, including the harshest of them all: 'I was not actually in love, but I felt a sort of tender curiosity'.

As he took in the tragic love story of loss and betrayal, tears began to form in Louis's eyes. The parallels between Harry and Gatsby's life were staggering. Both were men of intrigue and mystery, who simply wanted to be loved. All they ever wanted was affection.

Their green light had been their love. Gatsby's green light, as his hands had stretched across the bay, had been Daisy... and Harry...

Louis froze. Louis had been Harry's green light. He had been his Daisy. Sickness formed in the pit of Louis's stomach as it hit him all at once. By deserting Harry, he had done what Daisy had done. Not only had he left him a ruin, but he had betrayed him. He allowed him to take the fall for their crime. He allowed him to fall into a prison of his own mind, rather than accepting both of their faults.