Hi! I just want to take a moment to thank you for all of the love on this book and Glassy Sky, honestly it makes me so happy to read your comments. The fact that you understand the meanings behind the characters actions and words is amazing. Not many people can analyse characters like you all do.
And since I love you to death, here's a little bonus drawing x.
Their handwritings + a sketch that Harry has done with Louis' recreation of it underneath.
Whose handwriting is your favourite?
*
Louis was not in his room, nor was he by the Port. Hanji, Niall, Zayn, and Erin searched everywhere where they thought Louis might be, but he was nowhere to be found.
"He's most certainly with the Gypsy.." Zayn muttered, standing beside Erin as they all looked at the empty bench by the Port where Louis had been seen a couple of times before. From that bench, you could see the Grande Marie anchored down just beyond the port's entrance, their wooden dinghy waiting at the dock, and far out there beyond the wall that separated the port from the ocean, there was Home.
Erin sighed and sat on the bench. Niall's hand came to rest on his shoulder, Zayn squatted by his left side, and Hanji sat to his right. They all looked at the wall, all getting that same vision of what waited beyond that. None of them had really wanted to leave London, they'd only thought they had. "I want to go Home." Erin said, pulling his feet up to his chest. "I miss the Coffee House."
Hanji nodded, "Personally, I miss Harry's basement; he left everything there." She sighed as well.
"We had some good times, didn't we?" Niall said, chuckling as he remembered past events. "To tell the truth, I never really wanted to go."
After hearing everyone agree with him, Zayn spoke up. His voice carried a tone of bitterness that not many people got to hear. "You do realise that we aren't on holiday? We didn't leave for pleasure, we were evicted. If we'd have stayed there, the way things were, Louis would have surely committed suicide.." Everyone stopped talking when Zayn said that. "You all saw how Louis was by the end; he barely left the house, he refused to talk to anyone.. We escaped from London, everyone seems to forget that.."
Erin leant his head on Zayn's shoulder and looked down. "I want things to be the way that they were before. I want to live by the railroad again, I want to play on the tracks with Louis again; I want us all to do what we did before, to live like we lived before. I just want us all to be like we were back then, the kings of London, I want the Steamers to return."
Zayn nodded and watched Polly the rat crawl on one of the posts. "..Don't we all.."
*
The four walls around Louis were tall, made of wooden planks, and decorated with paintings of both landscapes and portraits. Above the double bed was a nude of a woman lying on her back. To Louis' left was a woman with her legs spread, her parts covered by a red rose. Louis put a hand to his chest, grabbed onto air when he reached for his own rose. Of course, he'd left it long ago. The room dimmed in lighting when the curtains were drawn closed, a light flickering dark shadows around the room from a candle on the bedside table.
With a glazed eye that hid a soul somewhat discouraged, Louis looked at the flame. It flickered when the candle was picked up, danced on the tip of string, and Louis' mind flashed back to memories of a hazardous fire that had scorched the right side of his body. He turned his eyes to the holder of the candle. A black hat cast a shadow over a pair of dark and perverted eyes, a bandana was tied around long hair, and a pair of gloves covered those searching hands. The candle was put down, those eyes turned to Louis, and a sly smile quickly followed.
"Desnudate."
Louis didn't understand the word but he understood the demand behind those eyes. He'd recognize that lustful stare anyday. He was shocked to see it now, to see that stare directed towards a disgusting person like himself. He was missing a leg and an eye, for Christ's sake, he had scars and wounds all over his body, and yet he was receiving the hungry look of someone who would not wait for a meal.
Louis took off his shirt. It was still ripped around the waist and no one had offered to sew it. He let it drop to the floor. His heart was on fire and he was certain that it wasn't from the third degree burn on his chest. He fiddled with the red ribbon around his hips, his bandaged fingers struggling to push the buttons through the holes. His mind was elsewhere, wandering through darkness, struggling to find light. He couldn't keep everyone alive, how was that possible? He had nothing to give to any of them, even less anything to owe. He let the cummerbund ribbon drop to the floor and knelt down to untie his shoe. Everyone was counting on him to be the Leader when he was the most useless of them all. He was just a young man from the underground, he didn't have any quality to him. He could manage the Steamers but that was his only talent. He stood back up and pulled his trousers and underwear down, stepping out of them. That was his only talent, and yet everyone was expecting more. He had nothing else to give, he was only Louis, and in a way, he wasn't even himself anymore.
The sound of a cigarette tray clunking against a table-top made Louis look up sharply. He'd almost forgotten where he was, but he could find a taste of reassurance when he saw the walls around him. He hoped that no one would find him but he doubted that anyone was searching. With his head bowed, he walked to the bed, lay on it and parted his legs. The stranger's body that crawled over him smelt of foreign spices, an unfamiliar smell that Louis would have rejected had he not have been feeling the terrible way that he felt now. He gasped and arched his back when a lubricated hand wrapped itself around his parts. The smile that Louis saw then was cunning, starving, ready to take more than Louis was offering. But Louis was offering everything. Again.
He choked out a whine that he was sure was his excuse to cry. Tears stood in his waterline when he felt fingers push into him and when those fingers pulled away, those tears slipped down his face and dripped off by his ear. He wanted to go Home. He wanted to see his underground again. Those fingers came back, pushed into Louis' body, and Louis leant towards them, trying to feel something. He whined, rubbed his eye with his knuckles and yelped when he felt something bigger shove its way into him. He opened his eye and put his hands around the stranger's neck, calling out a name that he'd just now learned. He was jolted back and forth over the bed, handled far more roughly than his lover had ever handled him. Louis waited for a moment, his mind somehow stuck on the photograph of Harry that he kept in his pocket. Louis unclasped the necklace around the stranger's neck. He slipped it into the palm of his hand, brought his hands to his face and was surprised to find how many tears must have fallen to make his cheeks this damp. He dropped the necklace into his mouth and slipped it under his tongue.
The metallic taste brought back memories wrapped and sealed in a sheet of nostalgia. He saw his past, the one that had been stolen from him years ago. With that single taste, he saw the young little prostitute with a smile on his face and hope in his heart.
But the fallen King was here now, being touched by a stranger who was far too careless for his body. He wished that he could turn back time. He moaned, arched his back upwards, his prosthetic tearing the sheets. He wished that he'd never left land. He wished that London would come to take him back. He wished all of these things but with only one thought in mind-the thought that maybe he could become what he'd been before; happy.
A loud tearing sound came then, but it was not from the sheet. Louis cried out and he felt blood drip out of him. The stranger pulled out, looked at a puddle of blood pooling quickly up on the bed but was grabbed back by the collar of his shirt. "Don't stop." Louis growled. He was in pain, it was written all over his face. The stranger hesitated, glancing at the door to decide on whether he should get medical help or not. He looked back when Louis dug his nails into his arms. He didn't understand the language Louis spoke but he felt the threatening anxiety behind it. He'd seen the dagger that Louis had brought with him and now felt pressured to obey Louis' clear demand because otherwise, who knes what'd happen to him. He pushed back in, blood already covering everything down there.
Louis screamed in pain, could now feel how torn he was inside, how the wounds of his past were reopening. "Don't stop. I beg you. Pretend that I'm alright. Please-pretend that I'm okay.."
His voice cracked at the end of his sentence. He put his hands to his eyes only to find one of them replaced by a cooper-made patch. He cried, shivered with the pain, showed the vulnerability of a young boy who wanted nothing more than to erase everything from his memory. He tried to let go of the present, to find his past before any of this happened, and Alois Frei made a wish-a wish that he'd never been born.
*
Harry listened to the conversation of the two men beside him in the bar. He couldn't understand a word they were saying but occasionally picked up on things that sounded almost English. The drink in his glass seemed to be disappearing quicker than he'd intended but he didn't feel too drunk, even if he'd been in the bar for longer than he could count. He didn't want to go back to the Inn, to see everyone seated around the dining table turn to look at him. He wanted to go Home, to see his old man again. He'd do anything to bring him back to life, to be hugged like he'd been hugged when he was still a teenager. His old man had taken him in when he was only seventeen, a year after his family's death, and he'd looked after Harry right until his final breath. He hadn't deserved to go, and the more Harry thought about it, the more guilt he felt by the fact that they'd abandoned everything the old man had worked for. The Coffee House had locked its doors and Harry was only now wondering if they'd ever open again. He wished he were there now instead of in this rotting bar by the fishmonger. There was nothing warming about this place. The candles on the walls made no heat, the foreign conversations were frightening to him, and everything was darker here. Harry was finally on land, but he was nowhere near feeling at home. Even with his comrades, with Louis, Roxanne, Jack.. everyone; he was still so far from being at his happiest place. For sure, his heart was with Louis but his soul was back in London.
"Lé beer, please-o." A familiar voice asked as someone sat down on the stool beside Harry. Harry turned his head and saw Liam there. He smiled slightly and his heart warmed a little bit. Liam could always make him feel better just by existing; they were best friends, after all. The man took a drink off the bartender which was certainly not beer, and turned his head when he felt someone's eyes on him. His own face brightened when he saw Harry there. "Oh, hello there, Curly."
Harry spun around on the stool to face Liam, leant on the bar, and tilted his head to the side. He sat and smiled in a way that could be confused with seducing, but that was just Harry being gorgeous, lovable Harry. "Hi." he said, looking away from Liam to the drink he'd received, "You know that isn't beer?" They both looked at what Liam had bought, wondering what was in the glass, shrugged simultaneously when they realised they didn't actually care, and took a swig of their drinks. "Lemon twist Rum with a tablespoon of apple and coriander cider." Liam said, licking his lips to savour the taste that lingered there.
"Foul." Harry said, drinking from his own glass. He felt calmer now Liam was with him and started to wonder why he'd not looked for his comfort sooner. Liam had been the one to truly comfort Harry when his old man had passed away, even if he'd not been conscious that he'd done anything of the kind. Drinking himself to the point of collapsing was their favourite thing to do together and they'd often go out for a beer or seven back in London.. Back in London they would-they'd..
Harry started to cry.
Liam put a hand out and touched Harry's arm. He was a drunk but a sober one then, and he new perfectly well why Harry was so upset. "It's alright, that it is." he said. "We're all here, it ain't all gone, is it now, Harry my lad?"
Harry looked up and shook his head, "I don't like them. Roxanne, the twins, they remind me too much of how far away from home we are. They make me realise that there's no way we'll ever go back."
"Do you really want to go back that much?" Liam asked, rubbing Harry's back. Harry didn't reply but Liam stood up. "Come with me, we're going on a walk, that we are. Clear that head of yours."
And they did. They went to the dock and sat in their little dinghy. Harry touched the water and wondered if the drops that stuck to his fingers had been to London once. He wondered if they'd seen the buildings, the people, the kids running in the streets. If they'd met the kraken, if they'd met sirens, if they'd been where the Steamers had been.
And then he thought that they hadn't. No one had been down the Steamers path and no one ever would, because as far as Harry could see, once you were to go that way, you'd become so hurt that the only destination you'd find would be wherever the bullet in your own pistol would take you after it'd shot through your temple.
"What's that?" Liam asked, dragging Harry from his thoughts. He was looking at a horse and carriage stationed in front of a house. Loud, urgent voices bellowed down the streets and people were rushing around. Harry saw someone on a stretcher be carried out. They were covered in a white sheet, and by experience, Harry knew that the sheets were to cover up a dead body.
He stood up and jumped out of the dinghy, glanced at Liam who did the same, then turned back to the carriage. On the side was written 'Ambulancia'.
"Come on." Harry said, marching up the road to the commotion. Liam followed quickly, jogging to keep up with Harry's strides. They stopped by the ambulance, blending in with the crowd that had gathered around the incident. A man stood at the door to the house, his face pale, his eyes hidden under a black hat. A police officer was by his side, trying to get his attention but the man seemed to be in shock. A normal person like him would have never seen a dead body until now, Liam thought, how lucky must he be..
Harry and Liam could see the shape of a body on the stretcher as two nurses loaded it into the carriage. The sheet had blood staining the front but it didn't compare to the state of the stretcher beneath. The cloth had soaked up so much blood that drips of it were now falling through it and running away with the rain water in the cracks of the brick pavements. "They've probably bled out by now." Harry said, "There's no chance anyone could survive that much blood loss. I wonder what happened?"
Liam shook his head, "Whatever happened, it must have been accidental. Look at that bloke's face." He nodded his chin at the man and Harry agreed.
Then, the man's eyes turned to him. He grabbed onto the police officer's jacket and pointed at Harry, suddenly looking a lot more lively. He started shouting.
Harry took a step back, looked around him only to see everyone staring back. "What?" He asked, looking at Liam who shrugged. Harry moved a hand to his back pocket where his knife was when he saw the man charge at him. He was shouting something but Harry didn't understand. The man marched forward but his disturbed and scared expression made Harry let go of his knife when he guessed that he was not being threatened. The man pointed to the carriage and Harry frowned. "He wants you to follow him." Liam guessed. Harry looked away from Liam to see that the man was frantically trying to guide Harry somewhere and so he followed. He was lead to the stretcher.
It was then, when he stood over the body, that he realised what the man had been saying. And it was when the sheet was pulled back that Harry knew he'd understood right.
*
Above: "The Sweetest", portrait by Harry Styles, "Sweet, Sweet is the greeting of eyes.", poem by John Keats. Table 4 by the window, Coffee House, September 1862.