Close to Nowhere (Larry Stylinson)

eight

...

About an hour before the sun began to set, Louis found himself crumpled to the ground, his knees sinking into the dirt. He couldn't recall how he ended up here but his heart was thudding fast in his chest and something was wrong.

Louis didn't even need to try this time as he pressed his palm into the earth and another vision washed over him.

He saw the barrel of a shotgun, staring him dead in the eye. The Tennessee moon hanging high in the sky, lunar rays washing over his shoulders, everything cast in a bluish-gray hue. And right there in front of him, holding the shotgun, was a man with a glint in his eye. Anger. There was a loud sound like an explosion or an earthly rupture, and then nothing.

Louis snapped back to reality with a violent flinch. He collapsed in a heap from kneeling to the fetal position, face pressed into the grass. He had to remind himself of where he was, that it was late afternoon and there was no one else there but himself, no man with a shotgun trying to kill him.

The evil, rooted in the dirt.

He pressed his head into the dirt and tried to calm his racing heart. But it wouldn't slow down. Even waiting for a few long moments, his breathing was still heavy and his heart was pounding against his rib cage. Rarely did he have visions about people dying and it was always traumatic. He could feel the darkness seeping in to his own chest, the empty ache of death.

"Harry!" he called out as a last-ditch attempt, wondering if Harry was anywhere near the spot where he was crumpled on the ground, or if he was really in this alone. If he was going to sink in the earth due to all the weight he was feeling, dragging him down, making it impossible to get back up.

There really wasn't any motivation for Louis to push forth and keep on living. He wondered if he was going to die. The only thing he really cared about was his family, but none of them knew he was clairvoyant and they would probably never find out. They didn't know Louis was in Tennessee right now because he kept his answers vague, saying no more than a business trip. It was easier that way.

In his heap on the muddy grass, it was hard to hear over the gentle breeze and the blood rushing in his ears from being so lightheaded. But he heard that distinct voice calling out to him, and hurried footsteps through the mud. Someone panting like they just ran a marathon to get here.

"Louis... Are you kidding me?"

He didn't respond aside from moaning into his arms and shutting his eyes tighter. There weren't any words to say, really, and he couldn't form clear sounds with his mouth. He was still trapped between his vision and reality, teetering between real life and figuring out what death was like. It was always the hardest to bring his soul back from the other side of the veil after coming down from a vision that involved seeing from the eyes of someone who was murdered in cold blood. And Louis didn't even know who the victim was.

Big hands hooked under his arms and heaved him upright, clutching him tight. His head lolled back and he made no move to right it. Harry swore as he pulled him to his chest.

"You're not dying," Harry huffed, jostling him a bit but it was hard to tell if it was intentional or not. "Stop saying you're dying. You're just overwhelmed."

Oh, so he must've been mumbling nonsense out loud. He couldn't bring himself to feel embarrassed.

Everything was hot and uncomfortable. Too bright. The sun beating down on him, the way he could feel Harry's sweat through his t-shirt. He smelled good, which was gross, but Louis was too out of it to care.

"What the fuck happened? What did you do?"

"Nothing," Louis rasped, slumping forward, "Nothing." He was being dragged through the grass and Harry was holding his entire weight. He could only remain limp and go with it.

"God, Louis. You're a mess."

He opened his eyes and realized they were in the house. Harry had deposited him on the couch and was now kneeling between his legs, his big hands set too high on Louis' thighs, and there was a serious look of concern on his face.

"Are you alright?"

"Fucking fine, thanks for asking," Louis grumbled, rubbing at his eyes. He still couldn't get the vision of a shotgun pointed in his face out of his mind. "What happened?"

"You tell me," Harry accused. "I heard you screaming my name and went and found you crying in a heap beside the garden."

"Fuck," Louis muttered, slumping back against the couch cushion.

Harry's fingers tensed on his thighs but he didn't say anything, only levelling him with an stern, unimpressed look.

"Joseph Thomas is a fucking murderer." And his ghost is probably going to try to kill me now that I said that out loud, Louis thought.

Harry's eyebrows rose on his forehead and his eyes widened comically. He was still kneeling between Louis' legs. Louis focused on the way Harry's nostrils flared like they did sometimes, making him look like an asshole, rather than looking at his lips and focusing on how they kissed earlier today.

"What did you see?"

"Him shoving a shotgun in my face and pulling the trigger. They're buried by the garden. More than one person. Maybe six or seven, I'm not sure. The bones are still there."

"Louis..."

"I don't wanna think about it anymore. But we should go back to the cemetery and try scrying his grave. And then figure out what to do with all the bodies in the garden."

A heavy, awkward beat of silence hung in the air before Harry spoke with hesitation. "How about... How about you take the night off and I take care of it?

"What the fuck? No."

"You could use some rest," Harry argued gently. "We had a late night last night. It's understandable, baby."

"Don't 'baby' me," he hissed, sitting upright and ignoring the way his entire body was aflame with that one word. It never got him riled up like this unless it was Harry saying it. It was his weak spot and they both knew it. "I'm fine. We're going to the cemetery right now and then we're going to the car, and then we're doing your little seance thing."

"Louis. Come on. You're allowed to take a break every once in a while. I don't want you to overwork yourself."

"I'm not. I'm fine." He stood up to prove his point, but Harry refused to move back even though his hands fell from Louis' thighs, and then they were in a very weird position together, much too close to each other.

Louis stepped away and walked out of the house to find the cemetery again. He couldn't remember exactly where it was but he headed off into the woods as if he knew where he was going because he wasn't going to give Harry the satisfaction of taking the lead. He stomped through the forest with Harry trailing after him.

It took longer than it should've because they had to backtrack a little bit, but they finally made it to the clearing lined with wildflowers.

"They all died so young," Louis muttered, in awe again of the short time between the birth and death years marking each tombstone.

He and Harry had a lot of work to do, but Louis was already jaded from the earlier vision. Darkness and decay clouded within him with an oppressing weight. He wasn't sure how many more gruesome visions he could handle. The more death he experienced during a retrocognition, the more his mind could get caught up in a real dark place.

"Bad blood brings bad luck," Harry agreed, standing a step behind him as they surveyed the cemetery for the second time. "But I don't speak ill of the dead, especially not when they're staring up at the souls of my boots."