A House Built Out of Stone

Part 1

There are times when Louis thinks this place deserves better.

He can’t afford to fix the roof. There are leaky, amoeba-like wet patches that line the ceiling, that drip on a bad day into the buckets Louis lines up over the wood floors. Over the years he has acquired two good tables. The grain’s gone a bit grotty on both of them, gone uneven and bumpy a bit, but Louis shines them down every Saturday morning anyway, even if the polish doesn’t come through very well anymore.

His mum gave him a chair when he scraped up enough money to buy this place. The chair that had sat in their basement for years, collecting dust on the sunken in cushions. It’s his though, feels like his chair, so it sits proudly in the corner, away from the chill by the door and the water leaks. There are two chairs to match the tables. Rickety and shameful in their quality, but they earn their due. They hold Louis’ weight when he can’t reach the vents and they keep him company late at night by the lamplight, hold him upright when he falls asleep over whatever book he’s reading.

It feels like home here, the bookshop. With its mismatched furniture and leaky ceiling and creaky floors. Louis feels comfortable cramped up between the rows of books, the used and worn covers, the highlighted words that meant something to someone at one point, like most things do.

Louis gets that.

It’s a Tuesday night and the shop’s empty. It’s not unusual. The shop’s not that cozy, maybe. The heat’s too temperamental in that it doesn’t work most of the time and the leaks might put someone off. Louis thinks the drips have a bit of rhythm to them, really, something constant and steady that runs in the back of his head as he reads.

The pages of the books in his shop are soft and worn, yellowed and used and Louis loves them fiercely. They were loved once by someone else, as most things are, loved until they were unwanted or lost or thrown away.

Louis loves them though.

Loves them like he does the dusty shelves and the old curtains and Zayn’s paintings that they hung on the wall when they were hungover and half-asleep. Back when Louis had first gotten this place and it was empty, just filled up with expectations and hopes and bare-lined shelves, waiting to be put to use.

Louis is in the back when he hears the door chime. The bell is nothing but rusted copper, but the sound echoes all the way to the back. Louis scrambles up from his place at the floor. He’s made a lounge of sorts back here, got a smushed beanbag chair and blankets and a lamp he found in London once. A quirky sort of thing that fits in quite nicely with the rest of his misfit shop. Louis flicks it off on his way out.

It must be cold out, with how this boy in Louis’ shop has got his scarf wrapped around his neck and his hat pulled down low on his head. Louis feels the lingering effects of the weather when he steps into the main part of the shop, his bare feet connecting with the chilled wood and the goosebumps rising on his arms. His jumper does nothing to fight the shivers crawling up his spine, and he feels a minute of envy over this boy, the warm, thick material of his coat and his boots.

“Y’alright, mate?” Louis asks. He hunches in a bit and crosses his arms, huddling in his own body heat.

The kid starts shedding layers, unwinding his scarf and pulling his hat off his head. He’s got a shock of curls to keep him warm now, got one of those thick knit jumpers hanging loose against his torso when he gathers his coat up in arms.

“Have you got anywhere I can sit and work?” he says. He’s got textbooks in his hands too, those dense, chunky things that make Louis remember all the reasons why he left university, make him remember why he’s stuck in a cold, damp bookshop with only faded black ink to keep him company. “I just need some quiet for a bit, you know? I’ll, like, buy something if I need to.”