i would name the stars for you [e.c]

Chapter 12

&&

It's January 21st, a Tuesday, and bitterly cold outside.

Louis knows it's January 21st because it's the date that Eleanor's set to return.

He can't keep himself from bouncing around the store, singing loudly and serving every customer with a genuinely cheerful smile. Most of his regulars regard him oddly until he explains that Eleanor's finally coming home.

"That's nice dear," Ms. Beasley says as she pays, patting his cheek affectionately, "I'm sure your girlfriend will be very happy to see you."

She's turning around to snap at her son before he can correct her, with a bird-like squawk of "Henry James, don't touch that! Those books are expensive."

Henry is her middle child behind George (the world traveler and book collector) and Tom (a CEO of some company in Japan), but ahead of the three youngest (all boys as well). He's thirty-seven years old, a banker, and lives in Chelsea with Ms. Beasley (whom he's in charge of caring for), his gorgeous wife, three lovely children, and an impressive collection of designer suits. However, the batty old woman tends to forget that her own children are grown and financially independent, muttering, "You'll not get a penny from me when I finally keel over if you continue behaving this way."

Henry looks up at Louis and rolls his eyes, and Louis can only shrug helplessly in return.

He sighs loudly as the pair exits, shuts the door behind them, and flips over the sign to read 'We're Closed'.

Tidying up a bit around the shop, he finds himself getting more and more excited for Eleanor's impending return. They're supposed to go to a massive concert tomorrow night for one of Louis' favorite bands, Eleanor having finagled a pair of tickets for the both of them located front row and center.

At nine o'clock, as he's stocking books in the back store room, the little bell finally jingles and a pair of heavy footsteps clunk across the hardwood.

He sets the stack he's currently holding haphazardly on the nearest tabletop and dashes out to the main foyer, coming face to face with a tired-looking but still smiling Eleanor Calder.

"Welcome back, popstar," he greets softly.

Eleanor just laughs and launches herself into his arms, burrowing hier face into the space between Louis' shoulder and jaw.

"Missed you," she says into Louis' collarbone, "Missed you a lot, a lot."

"Get off me, you great sap," Louis grumbles in reply, but makes no move to push Eleanor off him.

He ignores the way he hasn't felt right, like a whole person, in the three weeks that the younger girl has been away; and how now, suddenly, he's full to overflowing.

They order takeaway, dragging pillows out of Louis' bedroom to place on the floor of the shop. Eleanor asks Louis a zillion questions about what he's been up to, how his writing's going, what customers have stopped in, did they notice Eleanor missing, etc. as they gorge themselves on cartons of rice and noodles and vegetables in soy sauce.

&&

"Three weeks was a long time," Eleanor whispers that night as they lie, snuggled up together, in Louis' too-small-for-two bed.

Louis stiffens against her at the thought of the ocean-wide gaping hole that had separated them from this... whatever thing they have together. He shuts his eyes tightly and pretends his heart isn't breaking at the feeling of Eleanor's soft arms wrapped around him, pretends he'll be happy going back to sleeping alone the next time Margaret ships Eleanor off to another continent, or this coming summer for three full months as his lovely little popstar gallivants across Europe in a shiny new tour bus. His schedule will be so much better without Eleanor around, of course; no more distractions in the shop, no more making excuses to himself to close up early so he can swing by the record label to take Eleanor out to dinner... No more late nights sat up watching movies together and the indomitable need to reach for his moleskine when he startles awake at two a.m. and just has to capture the way the moonlight caresses the curvature of Eleanor's spine... Yes, he'd much rather sleep alone in his own proper bed in his own proper lonely flat than squashed up next to this awful, lumpy excuse for a best mate. Eleanor snores and his skin is like a furnace and she hogs all the blankets and... and Louis is so, so stupidly in love with her he's aching with it.