Chapter Text
“The old church tower and garden wall
Are black with autumn rain
And dreary winds foreboding call
The darkness down again.”
Emily Brontë, The Complete Poems
***
CHAPTER I.
There’s a light gleaming in the distance.
Against the dull grey background, fuzzy with mist and drizzle, its edges are soft, but it stands out nonetheless, tirelessly flickering at a point where earth becomes sky – or perhaps the other way around. It’s hard to tell when heavy clouds are dragging over the ground, which is far too frozen for this time of year. Up here, the moss-covered hills are whispering, almost white with ice clinging to the pillowy shrubs, robbing the surrounding area of all colours. The harsh winds tearing over the plateau pick up speed as they go over the edges, hurtling down into the valley and turning whispers into screams.
It makes the back of his neck prickle, even with woollen scarves bunched up from his shoulders to his nose, the tip of it practically numb from the cold. But he’s used to it. He knows how it is. There’s a familiarity with these moors ingrained in him, allowing him to navigate a safe route through a terrain that’s tough to handle even in better conditions. Now the uneven ground is rock solid, fog so thick he can barely see his outstretched hand.
Tugging his hat down over his ears, Louis uses his teeth to pull off his right glove before crouching down, fumbling for the piece of chalk that has undoubtedly turned the inside of his pocket white. He frees one of the almost black rocks of moss, wipes the smoothest surface down with the end of his scarf. The sign he draws with the crumbling piece of chalk is practiced, by now as familiar as the landscape he’s surrounded by.
His eyes flicker up just as the light gives off what almost seems to be an angry twitch. Satisfied, Louis gets back to his feet, wipes his fingers and brings two of them to his lips. His sharp whistle barely breaches the noise of the wind still tearing at his clothes, but when he gets an excited bark in reply, he knows he’s been heard. It only takes a few more seconds until a blur of dark fur shoots towards him, dog tags clinking together, the little silver bell Louis had attached to the collar chiming along. He stops right in front of Louis and sits, tail wagging so quickly his bottom starts to move with it.
“Given the pygmy shrews a run for their money then, Puck?” he asks and Puck yaps in reply, standing up and sitting down again like he can’t make up his mind. The dog is still buzzing with energy, even though they’ve been out for over an hour, at least, braving this horrible weather at the crack of dawn. “Ready to go home?”
Louis crouches down once more and gives Puck’s ears a good scratching. His nose and paws are dirty, undoubtedly because he’d tried to dig up rodents again. Louis makes a mental note to scrub him down later. Giving Puck another quick rub, he straightens up and pulls his glove back on. The sky is brightening up a little, indicating that the sun is slowly and steadily rising, and Louis’ stomach starts rumbling. He needs a cuppa, some toast, and a hot shower, and he guesses he should get a head start proofing the windows and prepping the house for what’s probably going to be a very long and cold winter.
He has to lean back against the wind as they slowly start their descent back towards the village that’s sleepily nestled in the still-dark valley, mindful of the scattered rocks poking out of the ground, Puck carelessly running ahead in a jagged line. He’s out of sight within seconds and Louis doesn’t try to keep up. Their morning routine is just as ingrained in his dog as it is in him, and Puck is just as eager to get his breakfast and take a nap in front of the fire.
His calves ache, despite being used to long treks, but it’s not steep for very long. The hill is interrupted by the remnants of the gravel road leading to the long deserted mines, weeds and moss having long grown over the road, the land almost entirely reclaiming it. The road leads down towards the village in a gentle slope, but Louis doesn’t like using it, for reasons he can’t quite put his finger on. Puck has taken the same dislike to it, which is why Louis is slightly surprised to see his dog standing smack dab in the middle of it, entirely still, ears perked up.
Louis comes to a halt, following Puck’s line of sight. It’s hard to see anything clearly in this weather and this early in the morning, so he squints, wondering what his dog has gotten wind of. He takes a step forward. Puck lets out a quiet whine that makes Louis stop in his tracks instantly, blood running cold.
Because that’s when he sees it as well.
There’s a wet trail up ahead, coming from downhill and crossing the path, leading to the mines. And when the next gust of strong wind suddenly changes direction, Louis smells it too; stale water and rotten fish and something akin to foul breath. It makes him feel sick to his stomach, but he swallows around the nausea and steps forward, body taut.
He looks over his shoulder. “Stay!” he tells Puck, and the dog sits obediently, but not without another soft whimper as Louis keeps walking, making sure not to step into the damp path he’s following with an accelerating pulse. The smell is prominent now, but it won’t stick, will fade just as quickly as the dark puddles that have collected.
Louis keeps his steps slow and his breath shallow as the ruins come into view, looking otherworldly nestled in fog, the crumbling archways a stark contrast to the black gorges they embrace. It’s always a chilling sight, and Louis doesn’t come here often – none of the locals do. Tourists tend to find their way here, for some reason so utterly fascinated with what once was.
But this one, Louis thinks with dread pooling low in his stomach and a slowly rising panic that grips his throat…this one didn’t come here to view the sights. It’s a tall man, how old Louis can’t tell, because he’s wearing a hat and is lying face down in a puddle just in front of one of the archways, like prey resting on the predator’s tongue before getting swallowed up. He’s in an old-fashioned windbreaker, khakis, and heavy boots, and he’s absolutely drenched from head to toe.
He should be more shocked, but Louis knows there’s nothing to be done. He’s probably been dead for a while. What Louis needs to do now is stay calm and rational, take Puck back to the village and alert the officer that has been staying at the Inn for the past week. Another dead, he sighs to himself, and unwinds Puck’s leash from around his neck, turning back to where he came from. It means more officers, more questions, more attention from the public, and more poking around; people digging up things that are supposed to remain buried. Which is fitting, he guesses as he throws a final look over his shoulder, fog swallowing up the mines once more.
The wood burner has probably been running all night, filling the entire room with cosy warmth and the pleasant smell of resin and smouldering logs. It crackles and creaks, but does little to lift the heavy silence that has settled over them. The overhead lights dip everything in warm hues, but outside the windows adorned with frost, it’s still dim and grey.
Louis wraps his arms tighter around his upper body, fingertips digging into the spaces between his ribs. He doesn’t feel cold, but there’s a shiver he can’t seem to shake that’s coursing through his body, and it goes along with the prickle he feels at the back of his neck; a general unease that makes his body thrum with it, heart beating fast. Puck is curled up at his feet, head on his paws, miffed because Louis refused to give him a piece of his dry and slightly charred slice of toast.
He glances up when Geoff walks in from the back room, two steaming mugs in his hands, face rumpled and tired, looking like he’s aged another five years in the last hour. Sliding one of the mugs across the table to Louis, he sits down opposite him and leans heavily on his forearms.
Geoff sighs. “You really should take your phone with you when you head out.”
Louis cradles the mug between his hands, letting the hot steam rise up and cloud his vision for a moment. “I don’t have reception out there, so what’s the point?”
“Louis –”
“Right, right,” Louis concedes, eyes flickering up for a beat. “Sorry. I’ll remember next time.”
“Thank you,” Geoff says, taking a sip of his tea. “What did you tell him?”
Louis has a sip as well, lets the tea burn down his throat too quickly, too hot, and he feels it all the way down to his stomach. “The truth. Essentially,” he replies after a moment, licking his lips, relishing the slightly bitter taste of the brew that’s never quite strong enough for Louis’ liking. At least it’s not decaf. “That my dog scented it. That I didn’t touch the body. That I came here first thing.”
Geoff nods pensively. “Did he believe you?”
“Probably not. There’s only so many people who can drown on dry land before it gets fishy.”
They don’t say anything for a few minutes and Louis soaks up the silence. Undoubtedly, in a couple of hours, the village will be swarming with police and forensic teams and reporters and they’ll all have trouble keeping their heads above the water. It’s beginning to wear everyone down, Louis thinks absentmindedly as he lifts his gaze and looks at Geoff, who has dropped his own to his hands, forehead creased with worry. Because as hordes of unwanted people take over their home, this latest event is likely to drive away the few remaining tourists still present in the B&Bs and guest houses. For a community that relies heavily on tourism, that’s far from ideal.
Four dead hikers aren’t particularly good advertisements.
Louis guesses he should feel more sorry for them, but he’s having a hard time feeling anything other than a medley of detachment, irritation, and resentment. He doesn’t exactly voice that, but it’s definitely why that officer from Pickering is side-eyeing him. Although Louis doesn’t stick out like a sore thumb, he’s just weird enough to arouse suspicion.
“When’s Liam coming back?” he tries to change the subject, and Geoff is tired enough to indulge him.
“Called last night. He said he’d drive up some time around noon, so he should be back before dinner.”
Louis hums and finishes his tea. “I’ll see him tomorrow then. Might need his help with the attic windows. I think I need to replace the frames after all.”
“You should have done that weeks ago.”
“I know, I know,” Louis sighs and zips up his jacket, drapes Puck’s leash around his neck and grabs his hat and gloves. “If I get frostbite from climbing up to the roof, I won’t complain.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Geoff chuckles as Louis gets up, Puck scrambling to follow him, paws scratching over the floorboards and tightly curled black fur shimmering in the light. “Joining us for dinner?”
“Maybe tomorrow,” Louis answers as he heads to the door, “I’ve got a few things to take care of.”
Geoff nods gravely as he stands in the doorway, hand curled around the frame and gaze weary. Geoff’s stare, fixed firmly on Louis, stirs nausea in Louis’ belly, but he tries to keep his steps light as he walks down the stairs leading to the Inn’s main door.
“Take care of yourself, son,” Geoff tells him, his voice heavy with things they’ve all decided to leave unsaid. “And stay on the roads.”
“Promise,” Louis throws over his shoulder, gravel crunching beneath his boots as he leaves the entirely empty car park and the village behind him, heading north. It would be quicker to cut through the surrounding fields instead of following the narrow, only partially cemented road, cross the river where it’s narrow and not very deep, but considering everything that’s happened, Louis doesn’t want to push his luck.
It starts to drizzle when Louis reaches the spot where the paved street turns into an uneven trail, speckled with potholes that fill slowly with muddy rainwater, and Louis refuses to sneak a glance across the valley where he could probably make out the mines through the steadily fading fog. Instead, he keeps his eyes ahead, and thankfully soon sees the beginning of his own driveway that hardly stands out with shrubs growing all over it. If he leaves them to grow long enough, maybe Liam will trim everything in annoyance. But if not, Louis doesn’t particularly care. He isn’t really into landscaping.
He turns to his right, Puck’s bell ringing close behind him and it’s only another second before he rushes past Louis, flying up the overgrown path that leads up to the old manor house with the crooked windows and flaking paint on the front door. Countless branches and twigs poke at its brittle limestone walls as it looms darkly, the thick curtains drawn in almost every room making it appear to be entirely deserted. Louis’ rusty Jeep is parked in front of the small shed that’s one storm away from becoming firewood, and the front garden, it’s – well. He isn’t into gardening, either.
Puck is wagging his tail, waiting by the front door, and Louis wonders distractedly if he should perhaps take better care of the property, maybe hire a gardener if he can’t get his arse up, but with winter rapidly approaching, it’s not the right time to think about the state of his garden. What he does have to think about is the state of the windows and the roof and Louis groans internally as he digs through his pockets for his keys. The lock creaks as it turns and Louis makes his dog sit on the porch while he goes inside to grab a towel to clean him up a little.
He crouches down and rids Puck’s paws, belly and snout of the first layer of dirt as the soft drizzle turns into a downpour, heavy drops hitting the ground in rapid staccato. Louis herds his dog inside and closes the door behind him, drops his hat and scarf onto the narrow sideboard and hangs up his jacket, leaving his boots next to the pile of dirty sneakers. Not bothering with switching on the lights, he makes a beeline for the kitchen at the end of the long corridor where Puck is already attacking his breakfast, dragging his bowl over the tiles in his excitement.
The fridge is wide open.
Louis sighs, steps forward, and reaches inside. As suspected, the carton of milk is empty, nothing more than a small puddle at the bottom, which is barely enough for his tea.
“You know,” he says to the room at large, turning around to look at the empty space around him, “if you drink all my milk, the least you could do is close the door and chuck it in the bin. Maybe leave a note.”
Louis doesn’t get a response. Not that he expected one.
Louis spends the rest of the day holed up in his room watching reruns of Black Adder, covered by a mountain of blankets. He keeps a thermos of tea by the bed and a box of Shreddies that he dips his hand into every once in a while, and he should be embarrassed, because this isn’t how a twenty-five-year-old should be spending his days. But there’s nobody but his dog here to judge him.
His phone buzzes twice towards the evening with messages from Liam saying that he’s home and that he’ll see Louis in the morning, and just as the sun is setting behind a heavy curtain of clouds, Louis folds the blankets back, heads downstairs and puts on his boots. He shrugs on his jacket, grabs his hat and his scarf, Puck already bouncing by the door, makes sure that he’s got enough chalk in his pockets and leaves the house.
It’s the same route, day in and day out. The heavy rain has loosened up the ground and with every step, mud squelches and Louis sinks ankle-deep into it, making the trek uphill even more straining than usual. But Louis grits his teeth, blinks against the wind and keeps going until everything just opens up around him and he finally feels like he can breathe.
The moors seem infinite at night, stretching beyond the horizon, an endless marriage of paradoxes – peaceful and wild, gentle and harsh, quiet and still screaming. Deserted, but so full of life. Louis stretches out his arms and tilts his face up towards the sky, resists the urge to sink backwards and let the moss cushion his fall. Resists the urge to dig his hands into the ground to feel it, to press his face close to smell it and soak it all up, senses amplified.
Pretends that he’s not aching for it.
His arms are trembling with tension and his fingers are tingling from the cold, but Louis allows himself a few minutes, listens to the miniscule twigs rustle and crack before Puck grows impatient, his bell jingling as he runs in circles around him, a dark shadow bleeding into even darker surroundings. Only when the cold wetness starts seeping through his boots, making his socks clammy, does Louis continue on his trek.
Karen would most definitely scold him if she knew he’d left his flashlight back at the house, but Louis could navigate through the moors with his eyes closed. She’d be equally unnerved were she to witness him deliberately stepping off the track to head further north, walking cross-country to the highest point of the plateau where he redraws the sign he’d left here this morning, white chalk entirely faded thanks to the downpour that’s still hanging in the air, making it damp.
It’s getting late, and he still has a lot of ground to cover, so Louis puts the chalk back into his pocket, makes sure that Puck isn’t running too far, and heads west.
Sunday morning dawns with Liam nearly knocking down his front door with an amount of happy energy Louis doesn’t appreciate on his day off.
“It’s my day off,” he grumbles when he lets Liam inside, still in joggers, two pairs of socks, and a sweatshirt he’s washed wrong so many times one sleeve is longer than the other. Louis is not a morning person. He gets up at the arse crack of dawn six days a week, but that doesn’t mean he likes it. After nearly twenty years of friendship, Liam should know better than to confront Louis with his good mood before he’s had his tea and some cereal.
“I know,” Liam says, not looking at Louis, but at his traitor of a dog who’s wagging his tail like Liam’s got bloody pastrami in his coat pockets. “But I thought you’d want to get started on the windows as soon as possible.” He scratches Puck behind the ears before straightening his back again and turning his gaze on Louis. “Temperatures are supposed to drop next week.”
Louis sighs heavily and rubs a hand over his tired eyes. “It’s seven in the morning.”
But Liam is already heading down the hall and into the kitchen, so Louis heaves another sigh and follows him with dragging feet. “Your fridge is open,” Liam calls out, and it’s definitely too early for this, Louis decides. He needs a shower and about ten minutes of silence while he fuels his body with caffeine and probably too much sugar.
“Then close it,” he replies with a slight roll of his eyes. The tiles in the kitchen are so cold that Louis can feel it through his socks, and he makes a mental note to get some wood from the shed to get his wood burner going some time today. But he could probably bribe Liam into doing that for him. “Put the kettle on, will ya? I’m out of milk though.”
“You should have said,” Liam tells him as he fills the kettle with water and sets it atop the old range cooker, “I would have brought some with me.” Both kettle and range could probably do with an upgrade, but Louis’ Nan had treasured them so much he can’t quite bring himself to replace them.
“Wasn’t awake to do that, was I?” Louis gripes back and sinks onto one of the chairs set around the round kitchen table. Yawning, he drops his forehead onto the wooden surface and feels crumbs dig into his skin, which probably means that the tin of ginger snaps he keeps next to the toaster is now empty as well.
“Do you want eggs on toast?”
Louis hears Liam rummage through the cupboards, but he closes his eyes and doesn’t move. “Don’t have any eggs.” He doesn’t have toast either.
The fridge opens and closes again. “What do you have?”
He turns his head so that it’s his cheek that’s pressed against the tabletop. “I had Shreddies until yesterday,” prompting Liam to sigh heavily like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. “I was gonna do a shop yesterday,” Louis defends weakly, “but then – well.”
He doesn’t expect Liam’s demeanour to change quite as much as it does, but he goes from looking slightly annoyed to overbearingly worried. “Oh shit, sorry. My dad mentioned it, but I just – are you okay?” His eyebrows draw together and he pulls a chair out, leans forward and sends gazes at Louis sympathetically.
Louis doesn’t like it. “It’s fine. I didn’t see anything. Just a guy lying facedown in a puddle.” Liam doesn’t look convinced and Louis raises his brows in response. “It’s not left me with emotional scars, Payno. I’m fine.”
The kettle starts to boil and whistle, but Liam ignores it. “You don’t look fine,” he insists.
That’s because I’m fucking not, Louis wants to yell, but he swallows it down, having neither the time nor the energy nor the patience to get into that. He loves Liam, he really does, but there are things Louis just can’t talk to him about, so he refuses to reply and pushes himself to his feet instead, walks to the stove and fills the two mugs Liam prepared with hot water.
“How was Oxford?” He hopes to divert conversation and Liam is excited enough to be asked to let it slide.
“Great,” he replies, “really great. Soph isn’t that busy yet, so we could actually spend most of the time together. It’s nice, really different from up here, but it’s not like she’s gonna stay there once she graduates.” Liam clears his throat. “It’s just a year, you know? And we’re trying to take things slow this time around.”
Louis hands him his tea with a smirk. “Look at you, Payno, in your grown-up relationship, making grown-up decisions.”
Liam smiles almost bashfully. “Shut up. It’s just – you know. Communication. Not really hard once we sat down and talked things through. Soph’s gonna come up for a weekend and I’ll probably drive down and spend Christmas with her and her family in London. If I can convince my mum to let me go, that is.”
“Good luck with that,” Louis almost snorts into his tea; he can practically hear Karen’s shrill voice ringing in his ears. He sinks down onto his chair and wraps his hands around the cup, drumming his fingertips against it in a quick rhythm. Paws scratch over the tiles and a moment later, Puck curls up right on top of his feet. “Did you hear that, Puck?” Louis asks his dog, who only lifts a disinterested ear. “Payno’s gonna leave us for Christmas. Who’s gonna secretly feed you all the stuffing under the table because even after twenty-five years, they can’t bring up the courage to tell their mum that they hate caraway seeds?”
“Oh God,” Liam groans. “Don’t remind me of that stuffing. But I think your dog will forgive me. You’ll just have to feed him the stuffing instead.”
Louis doesn’t say anything to that. His throat burns slightly and he takes a hasty sip of his tea, nearly burning his tongue because it’s still scalding hot. He can feel Liam’s eyes on him again, but Louis’ gaze remains firmly fixed on Puck’s black fur.
“Lou,” Liam starts almost carefully and Louis doesn’t like it; doesn’t like how Liam is so careful with him and so mindful of his feelings. “You know that even if I’m not here, mum and dad will want to have you over for Christmas, right? And if you don’t come, mum will come and drag you to the Inn by your ears.” He sighs heavily when Louis still doesn’t reply and Louis –
Well. Liam’s family is his family, technically, or has been for the past five years, since his grandmother passed away. And before that, even, since he and Liam had practically grown up together and Louis had spent half his time at the Inn. They’d been the only boys their age, so sticking together had been almost instinctual. But Louis still sometimes feels like he’s intruding, despite many reassurances that he’s not. Yet spending Christmas with Liam’s family while Liam is off being a functioning adult makes Louis feel inadequate; it makes him see how much he doesn’t have it together.
“Louis,” Liam repeats.
“I know,” Louis is quick to cut him off this time. “I know.” He wriggles his toes, prompting Puck to whine and roll off his feet so that Louis can get up. “Now, I’ll have a quick shower and then I’ll meet you up in the attic?”
His chair scrapes over the floor and so does Liam’s a moment later. Louis clears his throat and runs a hand through his tousled hair. He should probably have it cut, but then again, he doesn’t really see the point when he’s likely to wear a hat for the majority of winter anyway. The house is draughty and Louis doesn’t like wasting money on heating it when it’s just him and the dog.
“Sure,” Liam nods. “Are the tools still in the shed?”
“Should be,” Louis replies as they exit the kitchen together and step into the hallway. There’s dust swirling around in the dimly lit air and it tickles Louis’ nose slightly. “The rest is upstairs already,” he adds before they part ways.
They spend the rest of the day working on the windows, Puck running around in the garden below and chasing squirrels up trees, and by the time they climb down the stairs, the sun is setting blood red on the horizon. It drizzles slightly on their way back to the village, leaving the road wet and slippery, and Karen fusses over them as soon as they’re through the door. She hovers over Louis in particular, squeezing his bony shoulders and pushing him down into the seat closest to the fireplace in the backroom.
Louis lets the dinner conversation wash over him, focuses on his chicken and ignores Puck’s begging. Despite working all day, he doesn’t feel particularly hungry and he’s pushing string beans around his plate when Karen suddenly addresses him directly.
“Louis, sweetie,” she says, leaning over slightly and lowering her voice even though she, Liam, and Louis are the only people in the back room at the moment. “This young man checked in this afternoon, and I think he’s a journalist, because he asked for you.”
Louis’ fork scratches over the china. “What?”
“I didn’t tell him anything, of course,” Karen goes on immediately, furrowing her brows. “He’s probably gotten wind of you finding the body and wants to get a scoop. Those journalists have no sense of privacy or respect. They’re like a plague of locusts.”
“Mum!”
“What?” She turns to Liam. “It’s true. They’ve been snooping around for weeks and half of them don’t even have manners. The police should do something about them. They’re scaring away the guests.”
Louis doesn’t say that the dead tourists are probably the reason people are staying away, and neither does Liam, but Liam still tells his mother, “They’re just doing their job. I’m sure they’ll go once they realise nobody is talking to them.”
Karen scoffs. “I sure hope so. Anyway, he asked me where he could find you, dear, but I told him I didn’t know who he was talking about. He was wearing an awfully posh coat, so if you see him around, it’s probably best to avoid him.”
“Thanks, Karen,” Louis smiles at her. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The next two days are dry but increasingly chilly. He and Liam spend another couple of hours proofing the remaining windows and fixing a persistent leak in the roof. Louis manages to drive to Pickering to buy a month’s worth of groceries before the weekend rush hits, stocks up on dog food and other necessities, and takes Puck for a quick walk around the town, keeping his jacket collar flipped up against the sharp winds dragging through the narrow alleys.
He ends up buying a pack of fags from a corner shop, as well as – against his better judgement – the latest Yorkshire Post, and he smokes six as he skims the pages, ignores the way his throat burns as he returns over and over again to the article taking up the entire second page. It’s embellished and exaggerated, but it certainly paints a picture.
“Moorland killer claims fourth victim,” Louis reads out loud to himself, pulling his mouth into a frown. A grainy picture of the mines properly sets the mood, accompanied by snapshots of the dead tourists, one woman and three men, all between the ages of thirty-eight and fifty-two. The article states the cause of death as asphyxiation, and Louis doubts that even the forensic team can classify it as something else.
Thankfully, he isn’t mentioned by name, which does make him wonder why anyone would ask for him specifically. The reporters that have been frequenting the village – some staying for a few days, some driving up every other day – have been questioning all the locals with little to no success, and he doubts the police are disclosing information about an ongoing investigation. Something might have slipped nonetheless, so Louis decides not to waste any more time thinking about it and rolls up the paper, throwing it into the nearest bin. Pocketing the fags, he makes his way back to his car, filled to the brim with supplies, and makes his way home just in time for sunset and the evening walk across the plateau.
As much as Louis feels at home now, growing up in Rosedale Abbey hadn’t been a picturesque countryside childhood. Looking back on everything with a different perspective helps him to understand it, but at the time, Louis had felt so trapped in spite of the endless moors surrounding him. Being suspected of having various attention deficit disorders but never diagnosed with any had probably only contributed to him acting up in school and at home, terrorising his teachers and grandmother.
It had only gotten worse as he’d entered his teenage years, the isolation and lack of other teenagers – besides Liam – making him feel even more trapped, even more caged in, resulting in a number of reckless stunts including a hijacked truck, a car-sized hole in Mr Hough’s shed and forty-seven very drunk and very underage hours in Leeds, where he’d been picked up by a guy who’d looked a little like Michael Carrick.
Having to be picked up by his grandmother because he’d blown his last fiver on a pack of fags he’d then felt too sick to smoke hadn’t been his proudest moment, but it didn’t make him less stupid, only a bit smarter in how to conduct his nightly escapades.
The only reason Louis hadn’t flunked his A-Levels had been down to the simple fact that getting into university had been – in his opinion – his only way of escaping a life of boredom and mediocrity in Rosedale Abbey. But that – well. That hadn’t exactly gone according to plan.
Louis has done some growing up since then, has had the time to grow into himself and come to terms with the fact that this little patch in the middle of nowhere is just where he belongs. He wouldn’t go so far as to call himself happy – but Louis is content. He’s stopped feeling resentful about things he can’t change and he’s learned to stop blaming everyone around him for, well… being the way he is. It’s harder without his grandmother here and it’s even harder because they hadn’t parted on good terms, but the village has given him a second chance and he’s determined to prove himself.
The clouds are still hanging low when Louis walks down the main road to the Inn after his morning walk, but they’re not as heavy nor as dark as the previous days, so Louis hopes it’s going to stay dry for a while longer. He needs to sort out his firewood and clear out the shed, get a few things outside ready for winter, and he’d prefer not to get soaked whilst doing that. Puck is trailing him, a still-twitching grouse in his muzzle, which has diminished Louis’ appetite substantially. His dog seems really bloody pleased with himself, and Louis guesses Geoff will be too; maybe pluck and stuff the bird and serve it to the small number of guests who still remain.
Geoff is very happy to take the grouse, even if Puck is not happy to have to let go of it – probably knowing that he’s not going to get a bite – and Louis accepts the towel Liam passes him over the counter while he fires up the coffee machine, ridding his hands and then his dog of bloody bird feathers. Which means he is under-caffeinated and unsuspecting when a jarringly familiar voice he never expected to hear again reaches his ears.
“Louis!”
He shoots up, Puck yelping as Louis nearly falls over him, and when he turns around, Louis’ heart jumps up into his throat. What he sees makes his jaw drop and he can’t do anything but stare with wide eyes. And he guesses Karen was right; that’s an awfully posh coat sitting on shoulders that are slightly broader than he remembers. Then again, it’s probably been five years. Louis has changed as well, although not for the better.
“Harry?” He can feel Liam’s gaze burning against the back of his neck, but Louis can’t get anything else out and he can’t move. His heart is still sitting in his throat.
Harry smiles and bridges the last couple of feet between them, and is suddenly so close that Louis can smell a subtle, earthy aftershave that’s still like a punch to his senses, sending him straight back to that dingy and draughty room in Manchester; those eight square metres he’d loved and loathed at the same time with the dirty carpet and wonky chair and the squeaky mattress that could be heard throughout the entire flat whenever he and Harry –
“God, it’s so good to see you,” Harry says and for a split second, he hesitates, seemingly unsure of himself, which is an odd look on him. But then he goes in for the hug he didn’t appear sure he wanted to give, and Louis finds himself enveloped in arms that are stronger and more solid than he recollects. Yet perhaps it’s his mind playing tricks on him; perhaps his memory is faulty and full of holes.
His arms remain stiff at his sides and when Harry releases him again after a moment, Louis still can’t do anything but stare. His jaw is also sharper, more pronounced, and it suits him, makes him look almost regal, and he’s polished and put together from head to toe; from the curls that are long enough to brush past his shoulders to a soft charcoal jumper and tight, tight jeans complimented by shiny black boots. And – he looks good.
He looks out of place.
“What are you doing here?” Louis feels breathless. He feels…he’s not quite sure, actually, because this isn’t a scenario he ever imagined could become reality and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say. The last thing he’d said to Harry was “see you Saturday,” and on Friday, he’d left for Rosedale Abbey and never looked back. He doesn’t understand why Harry is still smiling – why Harry would be happy to see him.
Harry stays close; close enough that Louis can get a whiff of subtle but earthy cologne. “Well, um,” he starts and pulls his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, “for work, actually. I write for the The Guardian. And, like, this isn’t usually my area, but Janet, you see, she was supposed to drive here, but then she got kidney stones. At least, I think it’s kidney stones, and my boss couldn’t get anyone else to cover and I only had a few pieces to write on the side, so he sent me instead and then I remembered that you once mentioned you were from around here and so I asked around for you, because, well…” And he trails off, smile faltering a little when he takes in Louis’ rather blank expression. “I thought we could catch up.”
“Catch up,” Louis repeats numbly. “You want to catch up.” His mind is reeling, hung up on ‘I write for The Guardian’ and ‘I remember that you once mentioned’, and he’s hot all of a sudden, neck burning and prickling with a heat he remembers from when he was little and got caught lying or messing up.
“Yeah,” Harry says, but not as confidently as he’s been until this point. “It’s – I mean, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
“I guess so,” Louis agrees absentmindedly. “I just – I don’t think –” and that’s when Liam steps out behind the counter, shirt stretching over his chest and biceps as he positions himself slightly in front of Louis and between him and Harry, sensing Louis’ discomfort.
“How about you back off a little, mate,” Liam tells Harry before draping a heavy arm over Louis’ shoulders and pulling him close. Harry’s eyes follow the movement, widening slightly as they zero in on Liam’s hand curling around Louis’ upper arm. Louis can guess what Harry’s thinking, and it’s always been their intention when he and Liam had gone out together and Louis received attention he didn’t want. But this is Harry. Even given everything that’s happened, Louis doubts that he could ever not want Harry’s attention, despite his better judgement.
“It’s okay, Liam,” Louis says and steps out of his embrace, but Harry’s gaze continues to flicker between him and Liam. “Um…Liam, this is Harry. Harry, Liam.”
They share a handshake with tight-lipped smiles and all Louis wants now is for Liam to leave and for Harry to leave as well. He wishes Harry hadn’t come here in the first place, actually.
“So, how do you know Louis?” Liam asks before Louis can stop him, walking back behind the counter to presumably make another cup of coffee. China clanks, the coffee machine grinds and steams and Puck is vying for attention, snaking around his calves, but Louis doesn’t look.
Harry used to be quite the open book, but when he locks eyes with Louis now, there’s not a lot Louis can decipher. Casually leaning against the counter and shaping his body into a gentle curve, Harry raises his right brow.
“We dated. At university.”
“Briefly,” Louis adds.
Harry’s mouth twitches. “For thirteen months,” he disagrees, gaze firm and unrelenting.
Liam lets out a drawn-out whistle as he sets two cups of coffee down for them. “Louis never mentioned,” he says. “Milk and sugar?”
“Two sugars, no milk,” Harry replies, finally turning his head. “Thank you.” He takes a seat at the bar and stirs the sugar Liam hands him into his coffee, spoon clanking against the brim of the cup. Liam disappears into the kitchen, door swinging shut behind him and Louis takes a silent but deep breath, staring at the ceiling for a stretched-out second before he regains his composure.
Turning to his own steaming drink, Louis stays on his feet and ignores Puck pulling at the hem of his jumper, growing impatient because he doesn’t have his grouse and he’s not getting his breakfast either. Louis appeases him by scratching his ears, and takes a sip of his coffee, fingers feeling stiff when they close around the cup. Harry’s presence still shakes him up and makes his insides twist, but he’s had a couple of years to get a grip on his feelings. He’s perfectly able to do this.
“What do you want, Harry?” he asks, glad that his voice isn’t wavering, and continues to stare at the trembling surface of his coffee.
Harry takes a moment to answer. “What do I –” he stops short. “I just told you, I’m here for work. I –”
“No, Harry,” Louis cuts him off. “What do you want from me?” He turns his head and narrows his eyes at Harry’s confused expression. “Do you want to interrogate me? See if you can lure a couple of secrets out of me because the police aren’t talking to you? Find a few fillers for your article about the murder village?”
Harry actually looks stunned for a few beats, lips parted and blinking at Louis like he didn’t expect him to accuse him of that. But Harry catches himself. “No, Christ, of course not. Why would you think that?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Louis throws back at him, “maybe because it’s been five years of radio silence and –”
“And that’s my fault?”
It’s probably louder than intended, but considering how it just broke out of Harry, Louis guesses this is closer to his actual feelings than everything he has said up until this point. It’s closer to what Louis would have expected from him. It’s probably what he deserves as well.
Harry’s nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath and grips his cup so hard Louis is worried it might break. His jaw is firmly set, clenching with tension, and he looks genuinely distressed. Louis should feel worse about this entire thing, but – well. He’s had time.
“Look,” Harry starts, obviously forcing his voice to remain calm and quiet, “I was sent here to write an article. I’m only here for a few days and I thought, why not be mature about this? I said to myself, sure, he pissed off without a word, changed his number and dropped off the radar, but it’s been a couple of years. Why not act like grown-ups and have coffee and a chat about the good old days,” he adds with a self-deprecating smile. “Although I guess that’s what we’re doing right now.”
Louis has spent a large part of his life being a bit of a dick, but this still makes him feel awful. “I’m sorry,” he exhales and looks at Harry timidly. “I just – with everything that’s going on here, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Really?” Harry chuckles dryly. “You stood me up then and you’re standing me up now? Well, that’s just cruel. Come on. Why not have dinner tonight?”
“I’m sorry, Harry,” Louis says again, with a sigh. “I really am sorry for what happened and how I acted, but I had my reasons then, and I have them now.”
Harry regards him silently for a minute or so, twirling his cup on the wooden countertop. He looks warm, and soft, and Louis’ fingers twitch with the urge to touch, but he’s been anti-social for such a long time that human contact isn’t part of his routine anymore. It’s strange, because he used to be so tactile, especially with Harry, and to feel an echo of that now is like touching a hotplate. It burns.
“It’s just dinner, Lou.”
Louis lets out a shaky breath, because it’s never just dinner, particularly when it means dinner with Harry. It’s yet another can of worms that really doesn’t need to be opened. Louis already feels like he’s strung up with very frail string and pairing that with Harry’s usual dose of genuine interest and sincerity is a bad idea.
Then again, Louis has never been good at saying no to him.
“Fine,” he relents with a tight smile and finishes his coffee, putting the cup down with enough force for Liam to hear it from the kitchen. “Eight o’clock tonight, right here, don’t be late.” And he doesn’t give Harry the chance to respond in any way before he walks past him, into the hallway and straight out the door, Puck on his heels.
He makes it halfway to his house before his stomach twists and he nearly throws up on his shoes.
After fifty messages from Liam, Louis switches off his phone and throws it onto his bed. He feels sick and his heart hasn’t stopped racing all day. Even carrying what felt like a ton of firewood from the shed into the utility room hadn’t managed to distract him, and now he’s anxious, sweaty and wet from an hour-long walk in the pouring rain, and aching from head to toe. And he has to meet Harry in an hour.
Louis nearly breaks his neck trying to peel off the jeans that are stuck to his thighs and then get caught on his socks while he hobbles to the bathroom with a towel around his neck. His skin looks like a feathered chicken, because he’s still not gotten the wood burner going, so the tiles in the bathroom are like blocks of ice as well. He drops his jumper and towel onto the ground and steps into the cubicle.
The water takes a few seconds to get warm, but Louis grits his teeth and doesn’t move out of the spray, the shock to his system a surprisingly pleasant one. He tips his head back once the temperature has risen and wipes his hands over his face, applying a pressure he hopes will push away the image of Harry that suddenly seems to be tattooed to the back of his eyelids. Muttering out a silent curse, Louis ignores the stirrings in his belly and methodically starts washing his hair and his body, letting his mind drift to the conversation he will undoubtedly share with Harry.
Louis just doesn’t know what to say to him, is the thing. If Harry wants closure, Louis doesn’t think he will be able to provide him with a satisfying explanation on why he did what he did. And there’s not much else Louis can talk about. Harry’s writing for The Guardian and all Louis does day in and day out is trot through the muddy countryside. He’s not ashamed that this is his life, but – well. It’s not of any interest to Harry and Louis isn’t particularly fond of awkward silences.
But he doesn’t want to talk about his life. He doesn’t want to hear about Harry’s either, if he’s being honest.
Louis turns off the faucet and reaches for his towel, tying it around his waist. He should probably shave, but he doesn’t want Harry to think he’s putting any effort or thought into this dinner, which is probably why he shouldn’t be standing in front of his wardrobe once he is back in his bedroom, wondering what the hell he’s supposed to wear.
“It doesn’t fucking matter,” he tells himself with a huff, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t reach out for anything. Louis’ not got much choice, to be fair. He used to invest quite a lot of time and money in his appearance, but lately, there’s not really been a need to dress up. He only owns a few pairs of jeans, which haven’t fit properly since his grandmother died, grief and stress diminishing his appetite indefinitely, a handful of washed out t-shirts and sweatshirts, and some generic jumpers. Puck is judging him silently from his spot on the rug by Louis’ bed.
“I don’t need to impress him,” Louis adds as a reminder and, after a deep breath, grabs a black jumper and a pair of grey jeans that might have been black a few dozen washes ago. “One dinner, and then he’ll be gone again, and everything can go back to normal.”
Louis doesn’t bother with an umbrella, so when he walks through the Inn’s front door, his jacket is dripping and his shoes are soaked. He’s also fifteen minutes late. Karen’s got her hands on her hips, standing only a few feet away from the door, and is very unimpressed with him flooding the floor. Louis pushes the hood off his head, hair still slightly damp from his shower, and pulls his arms out of his sleeves.
“Give me that, darling,” Karen tuts and ushers him into the large main room, taking his jacket, “I’ll hang this by the wood burner, else it won’t be dry by the time you head home. Wouldn’t want you to catch your death. It’s dreadful out there.”
“Thanks,” Louis tells her and refrains from craning his neck to see where Harry is sitting. He’d changed another three times before settling on the black jumper and grey jeans again, and part of him regrets not shaving because now Karen is looking at his scruff disapprovingly.
“Now,” she says and lowers her voice, taking a hold of his elbow and leaning in, “what’s this about some boyfriend Liam’s told me about?”
Louis isn’t very good at keeping quiet, so, “Liam needs to shut up,” slips out before he can stop it. “Sorry!” he adds hurriedly when Karen pinches his arm. “Sorry. But – there’s no boyfriend. I know Harry from uni. We’re catching up, and then he’s leaving. Hopefully.”
“Journalist, hm? You sure know how to pick them, love.”
Then she pecks his cheek and disappears into the back room. Louis takes a deep breath before turning to face the dining room on the left; dark red carpets, heavy curtains and three polished chandeliers that dip everything into a warm glow. Mr. and Mrs. Whitworth are sitting at the same table they sit at every Friday, in the corner on the far right, their backs bent from years of working in the fields and the deep lines on their faces only accentuated by the dim light. Their oldest son Hamish runs the day-to-day business now, together with his wife Nichola and his brother Thomas. Miss Rowbotham, who manages the miniscule public library, is sitting by the fireplace with one of her old tomes open next to a steaming bowl of soup. And at the bar to Louis’ right, chatting with Geoff over some pints and peanuts is Mr. Lloyd, the owner of their local bakery, with his son, David.
This is Louis’ home, and these people are his family. And Harry has no place here.
Harry’s eyes are very green and remain focused on Louis as he walks up to the table Harry’s occupying in the far left corner of the dining room. If it were anything but pitch-black outside, they would be able to see the entire village and the sloping hills, the edge of the plateau and perhaps even the dark remains of the mines. But now, there are only drops of rain hitting the windows in rapid succession, pearling down the glass and turning into little streams.
Louis’ knees feel weak. He hurries and sits down opposite Harry before he can get up, crossing his ankles beneath the table, two candles burning in the centre of it. There’s a smile tickling at the corners of Harry’s mouth, lips curving up only minimally, and he looks calm and relaxed, leaning back in his chair, one elbow up on the cushioned armrest. He’s wearing a patterned shirt that looks more expensive than anything Louis owns and he’s still got that cluster of necklaces dangling around his neck and brushing his skin, because apparently, he’s yet to figure out what buttons are for. Louis used to enjoy that particular trait of Harry’s quite a lot, but now, it’s an unwanted distraction.
“I thought you might stand me up again,” Harry, says and Louis lets his pleasantly deep voice wash over him for a moment before he replies.
“I figured it would be easier to just get this over with.”
Harry chuckles and shakes his head, rubs his index and middle finger over his smooth forehead. “Jesus, you still know how to flatter a guy, huh?”
Louis shrugs. “Pretty sure you’ve got enough people flattering you these days,” he says, not meaning to sound bitter and harsh, and he hopes it doesn’t come across that way, but Harry furrows his brows, sitting up straight. He opens his mouth to reply, but before he gets the chance, someone steps up to their table.
“Hi, Louis.”
“Hey, Lauren.” He turns away from Harry and smiles at her. “No babysitting tonight?”
“No, thank God,” Lauren says and rolls her eyes, her nose ring glinting in the light. “Delia is like, really into Justin Bieber right now, and it makes me want to kill myself.” Cocking her narrow hips, an Iron Maiden t-shirt peeking out from behind her apron, she taps a pen against her notepad. “By the way, mum wanted to talk to you about something and –” She breaks off, eyes flickering to Harry and back.
“Tell her I’ll come round some time tomorrow morning,” Louis tells her quickly before she can stumble over her own tongue.
“Awesome. Can you bring Puck?” she asks as if she doesn’t know that Louis doesn’t go anywhere without his bloody dog.
Louis nods. “Sure. And I’ll have the usual.”
“You wanna hear the specials?” Lauren turns to Harry and raises one precisely shaped brow like she’s begging him to say no. “Soup of the day is something with butternut squash.”
“That sounds lovely,” Harry says with a charming smile that doesn’t do anything to alter Lauren’s rather cool and assessing look. “I’ll have that. And a coke, please.”
Lauren turns around, dragging her feet as she leaves. “She seems – cheerful,” Harry comments and Louis levels him with a look. “Well. Who’s Puck, then?”
“My dog.”
“Named after…the hockey thing?”
Louis huffs. “Named after Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
Harry smiles and leans back again, playing with one of the rings on his right hand. Absentmindedly, Louis wonders if one of those rings is an engagement ring, if one might even be a wedding band, but he pushes those thoughts down along with the misplaced and irrational jealousy he feels thinking about it.
“That was always your favourite, wasn’t it? I never really got why.” He hums and wets his lips and Louis can’t help but let his haze flicker to them. “How did it go again? The course of true love never did run smooth?”
Louis remains quiet for a moment, only the clanking of Miss Rowbotham’s spoon and some distant conversation seeping into the room from the separate kitchen. It would be ideal timing were Lauren to come back in with their drinks, but of course she stays away, most likely filling Karen in on details she deems relevant. It won’t be long before the entire village knows about this.
“What can I say? It speaks to me.”
Harry laughs, “I’m sure it does. I’ve always preferred Twelfth Night.” Lauren comes back and puts their drinks down on the table. Out of the corner of his eye, Louis can see Liam and Karen peeking around the kitchen door. Harry has a sip of his coke before speaking up again. “Do you still write, then?”
“I don’t,” Louis answers curtly, and he knows this is a subject Harry won’t drop, so he nips at his cider to wet his throat and steel himself a little.
Harry seems taken aback. “Seriously? Why?”
“I just don’t.”
A fine line appears between Harry’s brows and he tilts his head slightly to the side, curls brushing over the smooth fabric of his shirt. “But you loved it,” he says, “and you were so good at it as well. That short screenplay you wrote in First Year was genius. Why did you stop?”
“Because sometimes,” Louis says, looking down at his lap, “things don’t work out the way you want them to. That’s just the way it is.”
“But –”
“Harry,” he cuts him off, “just give it a rest, okay? I don’t need you to be upset on my behalf. I’m quite content with the way things are. Five years is a long time. People change.”
“That much?” Harry raises a questioning eyebrow, and Louis knows they’re treading on the edge right now, and he also knows that Harry wants to push them over. “This doesn’t sound like you at all.”
He doesn’t want to respond to that. He wants to push back his chair, get up and tell Karen to pack up his dinner so he can take it home and watch it in front of the TV with his dog curled up by his feet. Louis doesn’t want to be cross-examined.
“Well, then maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”
It’s a low blow. And the Harry he knew would have risen to the bait, exploded all over Louis in trying to prove him wrong, coming up with all the things he knew about Louis. This Harry stays absolutely calm and silent at first, no visible change in his composure.
“Don’t do this, Louis,” Harry sighs after a minute and he seems – tired is the wrong word, and exhausted isn’t quite right either. Resigned, perhaps.
“Don’t do what?” Louis shoots back.
“This –” Harry raises his right hand in a sweeping motion before dropping it into his lap again. “This entire act,” he clarifies with a sour expression. “Saying I don’t know you, telling me not to care, acting like we didn’t –” and he breaks off, looks to the side and clenches his jaw, struggling with his composure all of a sudden. Louis can see the way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “Don’t act like we didn’t matter. Like thirteen months didn’t matter to you. Like we weren’t in –” This time, he doesn’t go on. His eyes remain steely and glued to the white tablecloth.
Louis swallows thickly and tries to ignore the way his chest suddenly feels very constrained. “Do you want me to apologise again?”
“No, Louis, I don’t want an apology,” Harry throws at him. “I want an explanation. I want you to explain, because maybe then I’ll understand what the fuck happened to you.”
And that’s exactly what Louis can’t give to him; what he’s been dreading and probably afraid of. He can’t tell Harry the truth, and he doubts that a filtered-down version of events will satisfy Harry. Louis has spent way too many hours going over various stories in his own head in case he ever needed to explain it, and despite thinking he’d never see Harry again, Louis has kept his phone number scribbled down on a piece of paper between two pages of an old book he has in his bedside table. He’s had moments of weakness. He’s wanted to call Harry a few times to explain himself, maybe, maybe not.
The point is, whatever story Louis could come up with in his head, it’s not the truth. Harry deserves nothing but the truth. And that’s not possible. Louis can’t do that. But now he’s being put on the spot.
“It’s complicated,” he settles on, knowing it’s a clichéd thing to say and won’t appease Harry at all.
“Is it?” Harry shakes his head, lips pressed together in a tight line. “I don’t really care if it’s complicated? Because, you see – we had a lecture together on Friday and I wanted to take you out to dinner, and you said you’d made plans with Niall, and to go out Saturday instead. And then Saturday rolled around and I didn’t hear from you all day, so I texted you, and you didn’t reply. I called you, and you didn’t answer. So I walked to halls, used the spare key you’d made, and your room was empty. No note, no message, nothing. You were just gone.”
Louis doesn’t flinch, but he grinds his teeth together and looks at the way his hands are trembling in his lap. Because he remembers it even more clearly than Harry, his phone ringing and waking him up in the middle of the night, Liam’s name flashing over the screen and Geoff on the other end when Louis had picked up, not even entirely lucid yet. And he hadn’t really had time to think after that. He’d gotten up, packed all his belongings into a suitcase and a large backpack and gone to the station, taking the first train even before the sun had gone up. Louis remembers getting to Pickering in the early morning hours on Saturday, Liam waiting at the station to take him to Rosedale Abbey, and he’d felt exhausted, tired and terrified, and so damn heartbroken because he’d known he wasn’t going back, and he hadn’t even gotten a chance to say goodbye.
“My grandmother died that Friday,” Louis tells Harry eventually, throat feeling tight, watching his eyes widen. “I didn’t really think much about anything. I just – I had to leave, and I knew I was probably not coming back. So I figured a clean cut would be best.”
“Lou, I’m so sorry,” Harry says and he sounds genuine. “Why didn’t you just tell me, though? I don’t get it. I would’ve – I would have understood. Or at least tried to. Because it might’ve been a clean cut for you, but it wasn’t for me.”
“I’m sorry.”
Harry heaves a sigh. “Louis, I don’t want you to apologise. I just want to understand. You never mentioned your family, or Liam, or your grandmother, and whenever you talked about your home you – you sounded unhappy. So forgive me for not really getting why you’d give up everything and never look back.”
Of course it’s then that Lauren comes back with their food, but Louis has lost his appetite. Normally, he’d happily walk many miles for Karen’s Yorkshire pudding, but now all he can do is grab his fork and push potatoes around on his plate. Harry isn’t touching his soup either. It seems like this is something they need to get done first.
“I’ve not seen my mother since I was three, maybe four. My grandmother was all I had, and I was all she had. I had no choice but to come back. And – yeah, I hated being here when I was growing up. But you know what they say, distance makes the heart grow fonder, or something. I wanted to stay.”
Harry dips his spoon into the soup and swirls it through the cream topping, white mixing with bright orange. “Or something,” he repeats with a bitter note. “Listen, I get it, okay? I get why you wanted to go home, but I don’t get why you felt you couldn’t just tell me. You’re acting like I was some random fling, when actually –” Harry pauses and clears his throat awkwardly, refusing to meet Louis’ eyes. Laughter filters through to them from the bar and glasses clank together, but it’s all white noise fuzzing in Louis’ ears.
“I was so in love with you,” Harry eventually goes on, successfully knocking all air out of Louis’ lungs, “and we were planning on moving in together. You met my family. And I thought we wanted the same things. Then you left, and I spent months going through every single thing I’d ever said to you because I thought it must’ve been something I’d done. I thought, he wouldn’t just leave for no reason. And I was so worried.” He takes a deep breath. “We could have made it work. Instead of running away and changing your number, we could have worked something out.”
“I knew you’d say that,” Louis acknowledges. “But it wasn’t that simple.” His brain is running in overdrive and he’s terrified of accidentally giving something away, terrified of Harry continuing to prod and ask. “You’ve seen this place now. And I’ll probably spend the rest of my life here, because this is my home, and the people here are my family, and I’ve got responsibilities I can’t just leave behind. It wouldn’t have been fair to you if I’d strung you along for another few months before we’d both realised that this wasn’t working out,” and Louis really means that. He catches Harry’s eyes. “It doesn’t mean I didn’t care. It’s probably not good enough now, but I did. And I really am sorry.”
Harry holds his gaze for a drawn-out moment in which neither of them says anything and Louis barely manages to breathe. Across the room, Mr. and Mrs. Whitworth are ordering desert and Miss Rowbotham is starting on her second bottle of wine.
Suddenly, Harry lets out a dry chuckle. “This doesn’t feel like closure, does it?”
Louis blinks at him. “Is that what you wanted? Closure?”
“I’m not sure,” Harry shrugs. “I guess I wanted some answers. And I did want to catch up. Still do.”
“Well, then,” Louis says and finally has a bite of lukewarm pastry, “tell me about your fancy job. Any luck with research so far?”
Harry pulls a face and empties his coke. “Not really. I’ve interviewed Inspector James, but he’s only told me what’s already in the papers, so that won’t cut it. They’re keeping mum about everything from cause of death to list of suspects. And I’ve tried talking to a few locals, but they just told me to get lost.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Louis comments, feeling very relieved and just slightly smug. Nobody in this village is going to talk to journalists. And he’s pretty sure the reason the police aren’t talking about cause of death or suspects is because they’re just as baffled and lost as everyone else. “We don’t really like strangers here.”
“That message came across, yeah,” Harry says. “But my editor has given me a couple of days, so I’ll see what happens. Thought about having a look around the mines tomorrow.”
“Don’t go there.”
Harry stops his spoon halfway to his mouth. “What? Why?”
Louis looks down at his plate and pushes his pudding through gravy, watches as the dark sauce soaks into the pastry, making it soggy. “Because we tell the children there are goblins hiding in the ruins, with sharp and pointy teeth, who eat anyone who gets lost.”
For a moment, Harry just stares at him with raised brows and wide eyes, soup dripping off his spoon. Then a loud cackle curls past his lips, prompting everyone in the room to turn their heads in their direction.
“Goblins,” Harry chuckles, shaking his head and smiling so wide his dimples cut deep into his mildly reddened cheeks. “Sure. I’ll look out for those.”
The rest of their dinner passes with benign conversation about things that don’t particularly matter, mostly consisting of Harry telling a few stories from work. Louis, as always, has to rise with the sun the next day, so he excuses himself just past eleven o’clock. Harry walks him to the front door after Louis has retrieved his jacket from the kitchen, ignoring Karen’s questions, and the hug they share is brief, but it’s not one-sided anymore.
As Louis makes his way up the muddy road towards his house, where Puck is undoubtedly already waiting by the door, he glances upward and towards the horizon where sloping hills blur into the sky.
There’s a light gleaming in the distance.
***
to be continued...