Timeless - A Larry Stylinson FanFiction

Chapter 6

Christmas. A day each year since the tradition had begun filled with only love and joy and pure magic.

Louis had sat at his seemingly endless dining room table, looking at each empty seat for too long of a time and seeing his family there with him.

His dad always sat at the head of the table. Always. Mustache always groomed to perfection and present on his top lip, his hairline surely receding but still staying a musky brown on his head, combed back and to the side as it always was. His tie would be loosened from a good day’s work, shirt slightly wrinkled and ready to retire from its ten-hour shift.

Beside him sat his darling mother. Her hair too, was always perfect. Swept up in a seamless bun, Louis never had a clue how she did that each morning as well as get breakfast on the table and his siblings ready for schooling.

His siblings. Four little girls, each well-mannered and kind-hearted in their own lovely way.

Charlotte, known around the house by everyone but their mum as Lottie, was the oldest of the girls. Their mum never called the girls by their nicknames, they were always formally Charlotte, Felicite, Phoebe, and Daisy. Lottie was of average height, a shorter torso with long, skinny legs that caused a constant struggle for their mum when sewing her dresses. Her doe-eyed look and caramel-blonde hair caused boys’ eyes to wander to the sweet Tomlinson girl starting at a fairly young age, you could say. Charlotte always sat across from her Mum, claiming that because she was the second oldest Tomlinson child she would sit closest to the head of the table, since Dad always let Louis sit at the opposite head of the table because he was the eldest and the only boy.

“Preparing him to take over this house one day,” Dad said in a raspy chuckle, and everyone knew it was true. But what they didn’t know was how soon Louis would be taking over.

Next born was Felicite, known around the house by everyone but their mum as Fizzy, had matched the height of her elder sister by the time she was eight, with legs just as long but a torso much longer. Her looks matched Lottie’s quite well, but her cinnamon brown hair and slightly edgy attitude matched Louis’ to a tee. She would take her spot between Charlotte, who she’d start a spat with over the amount of potatoes taken as the bowl was passed around, and Louis, who she’d occasionally whisper to about how Lottie had broccoli in her teeth or how angry Dad had been that day when she burnt herself on candle wax for the near twentieth time.

The youngest of the Tomlinson family were identical twins, Phoebe and Daisy. Though they were little unplanned gifts from God (which was never actually spoken of really, that sort of thing was most certainly not talked about. Louis had overheard this when his mum was on a telephone call with his grandmum), they were the most lovable little things in the world, with such wispy blonde hair and tiny teeth growing in with large spaces in between each one. Absolutely identical, their teachers and classmates would mix the two up daily, but at home they were distinctly able to tell them apart, by looks or by voice. The only occasion Phoebe would be called Daisy or Daisy would be called Phoebe was when Mum caught one of them stealing one of her delectable baked goods off the cooling tray and scampering back upstairs. Seeing a flip of blonde wisps and the cheerful giggles of success, she’d call out the first name that came to mind, which was usually the wrong one. That was the excuse to keep running.

“You didn’t call me, Mummy, you called Phoebe.”

“I’m sorry Mummy, I didn’t hear you. You were calling for Daisy.”

And Mum would call them both downstairs and scold them, but each and every time she would let them keep the treat.

He could see them so clearly, all six of them seated at the table. Not the perfect family, but a great one at that. One he surely took for granted and now cannot get back.

The scene played in his mind as if it was merely yesterday. Lottie, as usual, was hogging all the mash, which angered Fizzy because the mash was passed on to her afterward and she never had nearly enough. Dad had his tie half-tied, leaning back in his chair with a mix of annoyance, exhaustion, and relief he was home. The twins would argue every night about who got to sit next to Mummy. He could hear the tiny, shrill voices that once pierced his ears but would now give anything to hear just for a second more. Luckily Dad decided the twins would switch off sitting next to Mum each night, and Mum, who was prepared for anything and everything brought a fresh bowl of mash to the table to satisfy Fizzy, who never finished her serving anyways.

The voices played back like a record in his mind, he was nearly able to hear the soft, subtle clinking of his parents’ wine glasses, which they did every night at dinner. The girls never seemed to notice, but Louis did. They would just barely tap the rims of their glasses, half full with any wine they had, and smile at each other. He watched them do this every single night. If Louis closed his eyes, he was able to hear everything. The rustling of their feet on the dingy carpet that sat below the table, the movement of bowls around the table, quiet chatter about school days and crazy dreams they had the night previous. Even the most shrill of cries and most heated of arguments Louis wanted back. Anything.

Flickering his blue eyes open, everything turned back to nothingness. The house was dim, only candles lit on the table and on the window sills, causing awkward and uneven shadows to dance across odd angles throughout the hollow, dusty room. The silent patter of snowfall outside the window also contributed to the slight illumination of the seemingly empty room. But none of that mattered, Louis’s eyes were too damp with salty, hot tears to see anything clearly.

It was a mystery to him why things had to happen in the disheartening way they so tragically did, but it was then that he realized it was almost difficult to recall a memory of his family as a whole without the strenuous use of a dusting mop and some intense thinking. It was like breaking open a pinata, embarrassingly slow at first, considering all the other normal kids could just do it so much more easily than you could ever dream, and when it finally cracked and the sweets spilled out, you were relieved at the fact you were granted a sugary reward but also overwhelmed by all the other people thrashing against you to take it all away. And that’s just what they did. They took Louis’ family away. And he was the kid that broke open that pinata, thinking he was helping when really, all he ever did was contribute to the hurt.