Revenge Is A Dish Best Served [Larry Stylinson]

Instalment Four

You've led me to a library.

I'm unsure why we are here, but I can tell you that my knowledge in literature is limited.

I followed along behind you for the entirety of the way, much like I had done so every day since I saw you, difference being, this time, you knew I was there. But we didn't speak. I felt most comfortable with that arrangement.

Once inside the library, you knew where you were going and made a direct route for the fictional section. Tracing your finger along a selection of books, I stood at the entrance to the aisle watching how your focused eyes dart along the titles, you were searching for something specific. I could tell.

Raising your finger along the binding of a particular book, you pulled it from the stack, I didn't see its title, but you held it against your chest as you shifted out of sight, around the other side of the aisle.

I move myself along the edging of the shelf to bring you back into my focus to see you crouched by another section, repeating the same motion for selecting another book from the stack.

This one however, you directed for me to hold. I look at you, how you held your frame so tentative, but you didn't look back at me, your focus was on the shelf beside me. I take the book from your hand and flip it over to view its title.

Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë.

What's specific about this book, Harry? And why did you give it to me. Once retrieved from your hands you pull one more from the shelf by my head and grasp it against your chest just where the other one sat.

"Dare I ask?" I break our silence, only because not knowing was really starting to irritate me. I don't like not having control over a situation, well for so long only.

"You need to borrow this" you instructed, as if it should have been obvious.

"Why?" I shake my head in frustration, following you toward the checkout. "I do not read"

You do not answer me, the mystery with you continues, Harry. I don't know whether I'm annoyed or fascinated by you at this point.

After checking out your two new titles and me reluctantly doing the same, more so out of interest to the rest of our story, not so much the one in my hand, you leave the library without another word.

"Do you believe in love, Louis?" What sort of question is that?

"No" I decline.

"Good" you blankly answer.

"Do you?" I feel like I know the answer to this, Harry. But I'll entertain the conversation regardless.

You don't answer me right away. You do, however, look up at me, first the first time in a while I'm able to view your eyes from front on. I do not enjoy the effect they have on me. Vulnerability is a weakness.

"I believe in that version of romance" you answered, gesturing down to the paper bag I held, containing the book you had so carefully selected for me.

"I don't know what this is" I hold the bag up in frustration.

"Best read it then." You tease.

I like this side of you, Harry. You almost sound cheeky, you're teasing an idea and order in front of me, confident enough to think I'll take the bait.

Very different to the person you displayed when you were sneaking to the back of the classroom on your first day now isn't it?

"Goodbye, Harry" I decide it's time to part from you, I can't say I'm enjoying too much of this interaction. You're playing with fire here baby boy, and it's not healthy how much I want to see you get burnt.

I walk back off in the opposite direction, no intentions of going home just yet, after all, I'm meant to be at school. So, I head for a route further from my house, clutching the paper bag tightly in my hand, unsure yet of its fate.

I found myself at a place I didn't necessarily like going to but ended up at quite a bit these past six months. A side of me that I didn't show to the world, it was my weak spot, and I couldn't have anyone knowing that.

Placing myself down on the freshly mowed grass in front of his aging head stone, I throw the paper bag down in front of him.

"Do you know anything about this shit? Emily Brontë?" I ask his silenced ear. "Quite a load of bullshit if you ask me, reading. They invented movies for reason."

I know talking to a head stone may cause for some concern and talking to the imagined is sometimes the cause in some people being sent away to special housing, but this is different, it's always been different with him.

I sit here for about an hour, unknowingly actually completing a chapter of the book as I read it out in mockery.

Deciding that it's time to leave, I throw the book back into the bag and dust off my pants as I stand up.

"See you later, Hugo" I call out as I walk away from his placement in the ground.

~

Well Harry, you would be impressed, I finished the book that night, I couldn't put it down. Did I enjoy the story? No. Not at all. But the knowledge that you picked that book, the knowledge that this was the type of love you believed in, it kept me motivated, it was I was reading a piece of your soul.

What surprised me Harry, was that this was no romance story. Sure, that's the category that it fell into, and I suppose depending on the way you look at it, it could be classed as a romance, but this was a tragic romance.

Tragic Romances.

Harry, is this the only type of love that you believe in?

Why?

What has happened in your past Harry to make you believe in tragic romances? Does this have anything to do with the boogie man sleeping in your mothers' bed?

Your past has captured my attention, Harry. I need to know why you view the world this way. I don't believe in love, I am not that naïve, I believe in the infatuation on one person, the crazy hunger you can have for them, but to not believe in love is on a whole different wavelength Harry to believing in tragic romance.

I'm not done with this yet.