Timeless - A Larry Stylinson FanFiction

Chapter 23

“Oh no,” Louis said aloud to himself after seeing the familiar head of curly dark hair approach the liquor store. He was sure Harry had seen him, and he was also sure that he wanted absolutely nothing to do with the boy. He didn’t want to hear the words the rich bloke would likely toss his way and he didn’t want to be reminded of the viridescence surrounding his pupils. He wanted to take his whiskey and head home where he belonged. Where he should be at the moment. Forever and always, Louis and the mansion, the house and the hound, solitude and the lost boy.

He could run away. What did that really do for him? It never eliminated his problems, but rather, only seemed to make them worse. It did, on the other hand, delay the effects of the problem and that was just about the closest thing to a solution as Louis could think of.

That’s all he had to do. Not pay any attention to the boy inches taller than he, and scoot his belligerent arse back home. Take a swig or two of the newly purchased whiskey and send himself off to bed.

It was only three hours past that of noon, but Louis was never one to bask in the sunlight. He was nocturnal. A night owl. The nightmare that thrived in the darkened corner where no one ever passed; the fear he possessed being his sin, the darkness his empty manor.

He tightened his hold on the shiny bottle; the semi clear glass tinted a murky brown as if it knew how unpleasant the hue of Louis’ life was at the moment and wanted to complement his look.

He repeatedly told himself not to make eye contact, and it was in his favor that Harry had not called out to him. He was free. Louis made his way through the hustle and bustle of late afternoon hype in the square, and Harry was but a shimmering memory.

As he passed by the oh-so-familiar mistletoe hung on the lamppost, Louis cracked a smile and chuckled to himself about the fact that no one had thought to ever take it down. He would have taken it down himself if it hadn’t been the only constant factor in his twisted life. It kept him sane. It spoke no words, had no story, it just simply was. Louis aspired to be a sprig of mistletoe in the world of grey, a splash of holly berry red in a universe subtly hinted brown. But he wasn’t. Louis Tomlinson was the darkest shade of black, and before discovering himself he hadn’t realized there was a deeper darkness than charcoal.

If souls could glow, his glowed green. And it bothered him as to why the green of a young boy had managed to ignite a spark in his heart. A spark in his world.

He shook his long bedraggled hair out and raked his fingers through heaps of grease, disgusted with himself once again.

Once Louis made it home, he decided to hop into the basin by his heater to clean off. He threw heaps of firewood into the place where flames licked brick, and poured buckets of rainwater into his tub.  

It took nearly twenty minutes to heat, but Louis didn’t mind. He had his whiskey and a thickly inked pen.

 

April 11th, 1919

 

Dear Bright Eyes,

 

He wrote.

 

I saw you today. I was nearly positive you noticed my presence as well, but it suits us both that neither of us chose to acknowledge the other. I have surely spoiled the fruit this time, as there has never been a lower point in my life than this. I do not wish to speak to you again, and I am quite sure the feeling is mutual. You are far too wealthy to be burdened with my status, to be impaired by my sinful tendencies. I am sorry to have imposed on your purity, and I offer my sincerest apologies to you in every sense of the word. Mother always told me to hold those I loved the most on the highest pedestals in the land, but she never thought to warn me that sometimes they took a plundering descent to the earth. I hope you had a nice fall while it lasted. I know I enjoyed the look on your face when we took flight. When we were weightless.

 

Sincerely yours,

 

Louis Tomlinson

 

Louis signed, scratching at his forehead discreetly before dropping his pen back in the ink pot. Now would be as good a time as ever to relieve his skin of the dirt etched into every pore. He was sure the water was warm enough, but he threw another log in the fireplace just to be sure of a mighty flame and a soothing bath.

He snatched the milk based bar of soap in his hands, working it vigorously in order to produce a lather rich enough to rid him of sin. Louis hoped that by dipping his head beneath the surface of the water he could fill his mind with the warmth that encased him, but no matter how hard he tried, the darkest recesses could always be unlocked by the simple thought of the Styles boy.

Harry was a calla lily flower in a deserted meadow; something you wouldn’t expect to find, but then again the world’s greatest miracles often go unnoticed until one day they cannot help but sneak up on your old soul. A calla lily, an underappreciated work of art, a rich boy with a soul a tad less uptight. He was what Louis wanted to be and wanted to know, but he was impossible. He was everything a soldier couldn’t have, and the desires Louis felt for him were ones that would rid him of his only will to fight. Harry was impossible to adore, impossible to win over, and Louis had to face his bleak and unclear reality.

I kill man after man with my bare hands for a living, he thought to himself. But I’ve never given much thought to the fact that one of these days, a man will kill me for wanting to be with him.

He dipped his head beneath the surface one last time before lifting his now heavy body from the bath. He wrapped a terry cloth that was particularly long in length around his wet body, as his family never had enough money for proper bath towels.

“This’ll do you just fine, Lou,” his mother always told him when he complained. “Whether you like it or not, this is the way things have to be right now.”

Whether you like it or not.

He was taught at a young age that his preferences were invalid, so it was only to be expected that this mindset was brought with him as he glided into adulthood.

Slipping on a simple pair of trousers and his usual torn and stained brown shirt was nearly effortless to Louis. The act of drying his sopping wet hair, not so much.

He brought the towel around his head in repeated circular motions until the dripping had ceased, and he felt slightly better than before.

“Time to fall into yet another nightmare,” Louis mumbled to himself, taking a sip of his whiskey and stalking off to bed. “And wake to realize the sun graces me with less than no pleasures.”