Timeless - A Larry Stylinson FanFiction

Chapter 11

“What in God’s name…” Harry muttered to himself under his breath, the wispy curls of warm words meeting the cold air floated to the buttons on his coat and circled them before vanishing completely.

At first he wasn’t able to determine what exactly he was looking at. Was it an abandoned sack of goods? An animal? Clothing left for the poor? Yet it now stood out so clear to Harry that what lied beneath the lamppost was anything but mere trash to be overlooked. This was a person. And an unconscious one at that.

“Excuse me!” Harry called out, quickening his pace and struggling to carry his food in the crate he had brought from home, the wooden structure slamming repeatedly into his side as he shifted into a run as the person did not respond to anything he called out.

“Are you alright?” he continued to ask of the person, getting closer and closer to the body lying in the snow.

Upon reaching the old lamppost Harry knelt down in the snow beside the body, now determining by the short cut brown hair and drab attire that this person was a man. A man of not much wealth, a man inferior to one of his own status, yet a gentleman who needed help all the same.

“Sir,” Harry repeated, brushing the thin layer of white snowflakes off of the man’s jacket, watching as his brown hair blew in the wind, snowflakes of equal appearance dancing through each strand. “Please wake up, sir, please.”

Feeling as though it would not help much to leave the man turned over on his side, his left cheek touching the icy ground beneath him, Harry gently shifted the man’s body so he was lying on his back.

Small flakes of white lie caught in the web of eyelashes on the lad’s face, cheeks burned red from the chill of the ground he was lying on, and his lips were turned pale blue. Yet there was something about him that Harry recognized.

His hands. His small hands lay shoved into the pockets of his jacket, and without thinking much of his actions, Harry took the man’s arm and moved it ever so slowly so that his hand was extracted from its previous hiding spot. With a flicker of a grin on his lips, Harry shifted his weight onto his other foot as he squatted over the body, holding the man by his wrist, the silver ring on the man’s thumb the only indication needed to confirm his identity. This wasn’t just any man. This was the gentleman who had given him the pin.

“Tomlinson,” Harry whispered under his breath, his own pink lips taking on a bit of a chill as he recalled this particular family name.

It wasn’t that he knew everything about this family, he certainly didn’t, but he could see them as clearly as ever, walking just past this lamppost and banging a sharp left down the long pathway to their home on the hilltop. He could see every last one of this boys sisters and though he did not know any of them by first name, their surname was known throughout the town for his father was always milling about, purchasing the finest alcohol for himself despite the fact he and everyone else knew he could not afford it. Mr. Morris would always tell him, as he swung by his liquor shop to purchase a bottle of rum for his mother on special occasions, that Mr. Tomlinson would come into his store completely badgered, insisting he was well and ready enough for another bottle.

Friendly chap, always a dear to everyone on his brighter days, but as the war dragged on and his son was still absent from his home, the drinking became more of a staple to such a man’s name.

Harry realized that he couldn’t just leave this young man out in the cold, and since he knew just where his battered home lay, he thought it would be best to take him there before returning to his own home.

“I wish I knew your name, sir,” Harry whispered to the man as he effortlessly picked his limp fairy like body up out of the snow and into his arms.

Taking a quick glance back in the direction of the town, Harry saw that no one had noticed their presence, and not one person offered so much as a helping hand all this time. It was then that a single tear of sympathy slid slowly off the bridge of his nose, and he looked up to see that a collection of four bright red and shining holly berries encompassed by familiar green leaves was suspended from the old lamppost.

“Mistletoe,” Harry whispered, looking down at the man’s seemingly lifeless body in his arms, the pairs body heat beginning to wake up his nerves as he trembled gently with cold in his sleep. He probably wasn’t married. Come to think of it, Harry couldn’t recall the lad ever having a lady to call his own before the war either, and he certainly wouldn’t have met anyone in the war, considering only men were allowed to fight. What a silly thought that is. A man falling in love with another man, how bonkers! Properly bonkers.