I have decided to stop trying to figure out H's story until I find him, and he can tell me himself. We'll see how long that lasts. The last entry made both Reign and I cry. It was so heartfelt, and I could feel H's longing through his words. He wanted L so bad, he wanted L to be only his. One and only. He wrote that on his diary, and it all makes more and more sense the further I read.
Reign is convinced I have this all wrong. She thinks I'm missing something, but it's not like she has any ideas on what the real story is. I still think I have most of it right, I have a feeling that I understand him and his writing and their story. But she's right. Something is missing.
It's too frustrating to try to figure it out when all I have to go off of are some old photos and diary entries. What if I take these things to him and he tells me to fuck off? He doesn't have to tell me his story, he could be angry that I went through his things. Maybe he's not who Grammy remembers, and he'll be upset that she sent us to him. There are just too many unknowns.
I tried to call Grammy, but she's been busy on her trip, she's coming home in a month so she's taking it all in. She says it's her last trip there, but she wouldn't tell us why. I didn't push because I didn't want her to feel bad about having to explain herself to me, but she promised to call back.
"Hi Grammy," I say into the phone. It's late and mum is asleep. Reign is out or I'd tell her to come talk with me, try to get something more out of her as we piece together the puzzle of H's life. She has a part in it, I just don't understand what it is.
"Hi, doll, how are you?" She chirps brightly.
"I'm alright, I guess," I start. "How's Italy?"
"It's lovely," she sighs contently. "Your grandfather and I used to travel to Italy all the time with some of our friends,"
"Is that why you still go so often?" I ask.
"Have you spoken to H yet?" She asks changing the subject faster than I can process.
"Um, no," I admit. "I will. Just haven't gotten around to it,"
"You shouldn't snoop in other people's things, Darcy Anne," she scolds. "I told you he would tell you what you want to know, and he will,"
"I don't know anything, Grammy, I was just looking, that's all, I wasn't trying to be nosy," I defend.
"He should get to be the one to tell his story," Grammy says firmly.
"I know, I know, just give me a few more days with the diary, I like to look through it and the photos, it's fun seeing you young," I tell her.
"You've had it for weeks, Darcy, you need to—"
"A few more days, two weeks tops, that's all I'm asking for," I plead even though there's nothing she can do to stop me.
She sighs heavily. "I'm not answering questions you may have about it," Grammy says. "I promised them that it was their story to tell,"
"Promised who?" I ask frantically, that's the first little clue I've gotten from her in so long.
"What did I just tell you?" She snaps.
"Sorry, Grammy," I mutter. "What are you doing today?" I ask in an attempt to change the subject.
"I'm going to the places that we used to go together. I want to relive the memories one last time," she says fondly.
I wonder if she means with my grandfather. I don't dare ask; I know it'll upset her. I know how much she misses him and her life with him. I know she misses being young like in these photos and the life she made with her friends. Still, I hope she means she's reliving the memories they made together before he died.
"Bring me home some panettone?" I ask not wanting to keep her from her walk down memory lane any longer. I also don't want to risk upsetting her again and getting scolded.
"If I don't have it all for myself," she laughs. "Of course, I will, darling,"
She doesn't wait for an answer from me, the line goes dead, and off she is to dance around the streets of Italy, chasing her youth. Lucky her. I, on the other hand, go back to H's diary because I can't help myself.
"I don't think I've ever heard Grammy get cross with you," Reign walks into my room and make herself comfortable on my bed. I should have known she'd be listening. She's been very intent on the search for H's life story since our conversation about it last week.
"Yeah, well, I've been doing the opposite of what she's been telling me to do," I shrug and plop the albums and diary on my bed as I settle down next to her.
"I made this," Reign pulls out a paper from her shorts pocket. I take it and unfold it carefully. It's a list that she's made.
Things we know about H and L:
1. H has one and only, please, and let us love written on his diary.
2. L and H aren't allowed to be together. Why? Unknown.
3. Grammy was friends with H, L, and G
4. We don't know who L or G are, but we have ideas.
5. ...
6. L wrote an entry for H, so we know they were truly in love with each other. It wasn't unrequited.
"What's this for?" I ask pointing to number five on the list.
"I have a theory, but I want to keep it to myself for now," Reign says. "I know what the dots mean, I'll tell you when I think it's a good time,"
"Okay?" I say eyeing her. Cryptic. "So, we add on to this list as we go with things we find out?"
She nods. This is possibly the best idea she's ever had. An organized way to figure H out. We don't have a lot of information, we don't get a lot of new perspectives from him, just the same love story retold over and over again.
"I don't know, Reign, I was thinking of just giving up trying to figure it out," I sigh as I tuck the paper into an empty photo sleeve.
"No!" She almost yells. I cover her mouth because it's too late to be this loud. She bats my hand away. "You can't just stop now,"
"Why not?"
"Because I'm interested now!" She whines.
"Oh, right, cheers," I roll my eyes. "Where were you the past month?"
"I know, I know, I was being rude, but now I want to help... at least a little bit," she says.
It doesn't take much to convince me, and I'm back in. I want to know about H and his life, and I can't help myself. "Alright, let's find the next photo."
Reign and I flip through the albums to find the pages of photos from the year that matches the next diary entry. "Here, Darcy, look," Reign pushes her album closer to me. Its two pages full of photographs of H, L, G, and Grammy (D).
"They look like they're on holiday," Reign says.
"They're in Italy," I smile at the photographs.
"How do you know?" Reign asks.
"Grammy was telling me about how she and her friends used to go all the time together. She's reliving these memories right now," I tell her dreamily. It feels like kismet.
H by himself leaning against a wall looking at someone, he looks happy. I bet he's looking at L. He's the prettiest person I think I've ever seen. His hair is longer, and it curls down his face. His smile is so bright and happy. He looks like he's himself in this photo more than any others I've seen. I don't know him, but I can see how comfortable and in his element he is here. Italy suits him and he is beautiful. The photo is old and worn, almost like it's been tucked in a wallet for years and looked back on often. It looks loved just as he was.
In another photo, G by himself smoking at a restaurant outside. He's looking off like he's waiting for someone. He looks relaxed, happy, free. He's still handsome as ever with the cloud of smoke curling around him as he blows it out. He looks so cool it makes me want to take up the bad habit. I won't, but he makes me want to. This photo is old and worn too, ripped on the edges, and faded almost to the point that you can't see his face as well. There are tears on the top like it was used as a bookmark. But he looks familiar. He looks like someone I'd be comfortable with, like someone you've always known.
The only other photo with H in it is of H and G. They're on the streets of Italy on a Vespa. H is driving with G clinging tightly to his middle. G's chin is resting on H's shoulder, and it makes me wish I had a friendship like this. Someone that I feel comfortable with, someone that makes me smile like these two do in these photos together. A pang of jealousy twist in my chest. Something about them is so infectious and I want that.
"These are beautiful," Reign says touching each photo through the sleeve. "What's the next entry?"
"April 1956," I tell her.
The pages are frayed, and the ink is smudged on the pages. It's like the paper was wet at some point. But only these pages. From tears maybe? The paper crackles beneath my fingers and I stop touching it in case it rips.
"Read it to me?" Reign asks.
And so, I do.
🎞
April 1956
I can't even think straight, L.
Ironic, I know. But I'm not trying to be cheeky or cute, I've never been more serious.
I didn't think it would bother me this much, but it does. A baby. Your baby. Your baby that isn't with me. Your baby that will never be our baby. Your baby.
Darcy tells me she's sorry. She tells me that she didn't know it would upset me so much or she wouldn't have encouraged this. She tells me she loves me and never meant for anything to put a wave in the relationship you and I have. I felt like utter shit when she cried on my shoulder. I felt like a complete wanker when I saw her mascara stains on my shirt after she left. I made her cry. I made her feel bad because I can't get over myself over something that I knew was happening.
I felt like shit when she came to see me, but nothing compares to how I felt when you did.
I wasn't expecting you that day. You had told me about the pregnancy through a letter. A goddamn letter, L. Don't you think I deserved better than that? I knew that you wanted a baby, I knew it was part of the deal we had, but fuck, you could have braced my heart for it.
I'm not mad at you. I never was. I knew it was coming, we talked about it, but it just happened so fast. You told me in a letter, not to my face and I felt so alone. I was by myself. I didn't have Darcy; she was with you. I didn't have you. I didn't have anyone. I was by myself and, fuck, it was so lonely.
Nothing can get the image of you when I opened my door that day. You weren't supposed to be there. I had read and reread the letter you wrote to me about the pregnancy.
I cried and got angry and wrecked my entire house while I pitied myself. I opened the door with my mess behind me to you standing there in broad daylight.
You took one look at me and fell to the floor in tears. I caught you before your knees hit the ground, but you were as useless as a ragdoll. I had to physically drag you inside and shut the door so nobody would see us. You wouldn't let go of me. Your arms wrapped around my neck too tight, and your chest pressed against mine, too close.
Usually, this kind of touch is all I think about, but in that moment, I didn't want you to touch me at all.
I tried to pry your hands off of me, but you wouldn't let go. You sobbed into my neck, it was too hot and wet and sticky, and I felt like I was suffocating. I never felt that way with you, but I had to get you off of me, I couldn't breathe. I couldn't tell whose tears were on my cheeks, probably both of ours. I couldn't tell if you were angry or upset or scared, but it was too much for me. For once, you were too much for me.
I never ask you where you've been, L, I never interrogate you. I don't feel the need to question you or know everything about your life that doesn't involve me, that can't involve me. I don't do those things, and all I ask in return is your love and respect. But as always, I'm a fool for you. I'm your fool.
I don't write that with the admiration you've come to expect from me.
Even when I'm at my worst, even when I feel broken beyond repair, I'm still a fool for you, L.T. I don't say that lightly. All I'm asking you for is your love, why does it feel like I have to fight for it? I don't want to have to fight this hard when I give mine up to you so easily.
I never really tell you exactly how I'm feeling... I don't because you know me so well, you know me in and out and I never thought I had to tell you.
I tried to that day though. I tried so hard to pull the words from my chest, from my throat, to tell you, but I couldn't find them. How ironic? I couldn't find the words to say what I meant. I couldn't find the words to tell you what I needed. I still can't. This is a struggle for me in a way that it never has been before.
Things have been so easy between us for six years. But now I don't even know how to talk to you, I don't know how to write to you. I know nothing's ever easy. You told me that. And I know I'm not your only. I know what we have to be. But damn, does it piss me off sometimes. I want you; L. I want that life with you. I want to marry you. And don't give me that 'we had our ceremony' bullshit, you and I both know that isn't—I'm not going to finish that sentence because I'll regret it later, forget I wrote it. It's real to me.
I'm not your only, I know that. I can come to terms with that, L. At least I'm one.
I'm coming to terms with this as I write. I'm still upset, at myself more than the situation itself. I'm reminded of all our times together; our stolen moments and I feel my unwavering love for you creep back to the forefront of my mind. I'm sorry for the beginning of this letter. I'm not going to scrap it because it's true to how I felt in the moment, and it deserves a place in our story. So there. Have at it.
You are something else, L. I can't tell you how badly I want to write your name down. How badly my hand itches to write my favorite sound on this paper. But I won't. I won't risk us. But I want to.
Your love is unconditional, I know that. I know you give it freely and willingly. But I wonder if it all belongs to me. That's selfish, I know. A little bit of your love is better than none at all. But I want it all. Again, selfishly.
I can't finish this letter now. I can't see through my tears (as melodramatic as that sounds), and I can't sort through my emotions enough to write anything worthy to read by you.
*
(May)
It's been a few weeks since I've written.
I was going to start a new entry, but this one just felt...unfinished.
We've fought a lot since April. We've argued about stupid, trivial things. We've fought about big, important things. You've spent a lot of time at your house since news of the pregnancy came about. You've been needed there, I understand. But did that really mean you had to stop seeing me? Did that really mean you had to shut me out because you couldn't figure out how to split your time?
Darcy and I talked about this a few weeks ago, around the time you told me about the baby. She told me she helped you think of a sort of schedule. A way to split your time between me and your parental duties.
I loved her for that. I hated you for not trying.
I thought it was over for us. I locked myself in my house for a week and refused to speak to anyone. I felt horrible when I found out why you stopped talking to me, why you shut me out. You didn't know how to deal with heartbreak like that. You didn't know how to pick up someone else's pieces. That's why you called me.
You came to my house so late at night I thought you were drunk. Your eyes were bloodshot, and your hair was a mess. You looked like you hadn't showered in days. You didn't say a word you just took my hand and lead me back to your house to fix you. Darcy needed it more than you did. She needed someone to fix everything, I didn't know I could be that person, but somehow, we did it. We all did it together. And we were better for it.
The baby was gone, but while it was here, it brought us all closer together. Darcy thinks it was meant to be this way. It was meant to happen; it was meant to test us all and our relationship. And then, she said, it was meant to go away and find its next adventure. I thought that was a beautiful way to think about it.
I'm writing this because I want to tell you again that I'm sorry for how I reacted to all of this. I was wrong in every step of the way and when it happens again, when it works out this time, I will be better. I will be there for you every step and I will support you with everything I have. I will hold your hand and I will take a step back when you ask me to. I will be better.
I told Darcy. I told her I want you to have a baby. I want you to try to have another one. She thought it was too soon and I didn't disagree, but I told her as I told you, in a few years I think you should try again, she agreed, a few years. She thinks you need time, and I couldn't disagree with that. If anyone knows you the way I do, it's Darcy.
I'm sorry, L. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
I disappointed myself and I won't ever do this to you again and I know you won't do it to me. Next time we'll be ready. We'll talk about it, we'll know it happens fast, we'll be prepared and secure in each other. I promise you.
I love you. You are all of me and I am all of you.
I've never experienced anything as dark and dreadful as the days that we weren't together. I don't know what you did to me, but I can't be without you. It's physically impossible to be without you.
H and L. That's who we are, it's undeniable. We are inevitable.
-H
🎞
I'll pray for your love:
They went to church together on a Friday morning.
They did this because it's the only time that nobody else would be around. They wanted to experience going to church and having a normal weekend together. So, Louis came over Thursday night with a case full of clothes and toiletries that he didn't need because half of his things already reside in Harry's house.
They spent the evening cooking together. Harry bought things to make Louis' favorite, homemade ravioli. He's a simple man, easy to please. Louis bought things to make panettone, not a surprise to Harry. They cooked and made a mess out of his kitchen. They baked and made a mess of each other.
The ravioli turned out mushy and the panettone burned because they were lost in each other. Sounds of kisses and giggles filled Harry's kitchen all night and he has never been happier.
That night they barely slept, too focused on holding every moment in their heads, between each other. Committing every second to memory.
Harry woke Louis up with breakfast in bed before they set off to the chapel. One shot at trying to be normal. One shot at what a weekend would look like if their love was acceptable in society.
What an odd notion, Harry thinks. 'If their love was acceptable in society'. It sounds so clinical, so detached. It doesn't sound like a love story. It certainly doesn't sound like Harry and Louis. That gives Harry an odd sort of comfort knowing that it has nothing to do with him and his boy.
Now, they sit in their pew in the middle of the church. Thigh to thigh, hand in hand, staring straight forward at the statue of the Virgin Mary.
"Lou?" Harry tilts his head to the side. He's been staring at her for so long that her face seems to warp into something sinister. He's always been religious, and he's always struggled with the nonexistent bridge between who he is and his beliefs. They never seem to align, no matter how hard he tries to force the pieces together.
"Yes, darling?" Louis says quietly. His eyes are closed like he's meditating. Harry knows better than to think that though, the last time he suggested any sort of meditation, he got a dirty look and the silent treatment for half an hour.
"What do you think about God?" Harry asks.
"You know I'm religious," he answers simply.
"I know, but I mean relationship-wise. What do you think he thinks about our relationship, who we are?"
"Gay,"
"What?"
"Say it," Louis says mimicking their conversation from years ago. "We're gay, you never want to say it out loud, you act like it's a bad word,"
Harry hesitates and it's the worst thing he could have done. Louis knows him like the pages of his well-read books. He knows what Harry's thinking before he does and he feels the hesitation between them, Harry knows he's messed up.
"What?" Louis scoffs. "You can fuck me, but you can't say that you're gay?"
"Louis!" Harry covers Louis' mouth in shock. "We're in church!"
"If he really cared, then we're already going to hell, Harry, give it a rest," Louis says nonchalantly.
Harry realizes that he's right. He never says it, it feels taboo, but it shouldn't. It is who he is. "Alright. How do you think God feels about our relationship? About us being gay," he amends.
"I think that he turns his face at us like a parent does when their child is doing something wrong," Louis says. "I think he loves people like us, it's just... seen as wrong,"
Harry doesn't like his answer. He doesn't think that's what it's like at all. "Tell me why it's wrong,"
"It's just not how it's supposed to be I suppose. That's what other people say, it's not how it's supposed to be," Louis squeezes Harry's hand.
"Then how come it feels like the most right thing in the world?" Harry asks.
"I don't have an answer for you, my love," Louis offers Harry a tight smile. This is obviously a tough conversation for him.
"Are you mad at him?" Harry asks shyly. "For taking the baby from you and Darcy?"
Louis sighs. He doesn't like to talk about these things often, but he opens up to Harry a little.
"Yes," he admits. "I know it wasn't meant to be and it wasn't time. We all thought we were ready for it, but none of us were. It hit you hard, it hurt me more than I thought it would, and Darc... she wasn't ready for any part of it,"
"I know, I didn't know how to help her," Harry hangs his head. He hates thinking about how he acted during those weeks.
"When she found out she was pregnant, she cried, but it wasn't happy tears. She was mad," Louis huffs a laugh out. "She threw every towel we own at me and then started on the clothes in the closet. I don't know what she expected, we don't sleep together. Ever. We were trying to—"
"Please don't finish that sentence," Harry clutches his stomach as he feels it turn at the thought of Louis with someone else even if it is Darcy.
"Trust me, neither of us enjoyed it. I think she sees me as family and not in a husband-and-wife sort of way. Everything about us is so weird. It's like living with my best mate but she cooks me dinner sometimes," Louis says with a smile. He loves her and Harry loves her, but it is odd trying to act like a normal family when they're anything but.
"You know I'll always wait for you, Lou, but... do you think that we'll ever get to do things like this in public... like have a life out in the open?" Harry asks holding Louis' hand a little tighter.
"I pray for it, H, I do," Louis sighs. That's not an answer, but it's answer enough. Harry sniffles to keep the tears in that pool in his eyes at bay.
Louis keeps their fingers entwined and slings his arm around Harry's neck, their hands resting on his heart. "Tell me about your God, carissimo," Dearest. Louis is reminding him that he is Louis' dearest.
"My Gods look like you," Harry says looking directly at Louis.
"I wanted this life to be different for you. You deserve everything and... and I have nothing to offer you," Louis says with guilt in his eyes.
"I only want you," Harry says. "Can you give me that?"
Louis searches Harry's face. There's nothing but seriousness there. "Yes,"
They kiss. They kiss and they hold each other for a few more moments in front of nobody but their version of God. It's not how it's supposed to be, Harry knows that. They're supposed to live a life that allows them to be who they are. Harry knows this is how it's supposed to be because how could anyone deny a love story like theirs? How could anyone think it's wrong? Something so beautiful shouldn't have to be hidden. But maybe that's why it is. Maybe it's too beautiful for anyone else to see. Harry likes that idea much better.
"Take me to lunch?" Harry asks with a cheeky smile.
"I'll take you to the shittiest chippie on the street," Louis smiles and winks at him.
"You know me so well," Harry lets go of Louis' hand and stands up with him. He stretches his back, and it pops all the way up.
Louis gently takes Harry's face in his hands and kisses him, hard. They kiss and it feels so good, so right. It feels freeing. It feels like Louis.