Work Text:
Ricochets
Louis picks up his keys and his wallet, placing the folded letter lying on the table into his pocket. He opens the dark wooden door, and glances one last time inside his house: the quietness is noticeable in each particle of dust that is slowly flying around. Instead of the bang of the door shutting closed, Louis wishes he could hear Harry’s laugh resonate inside their home. It used to be a full body experience, Harry’s long hair bobbing in rhythm with the shakes of his stomach. That curly brown mane was his pride, giving Harry – according to their daughter Darcy - a rock star look.
Louis closes the gate of his front garden and welcomes the cold hug of October, hoping it will numb him. He used to enjoy the walk by the river to the lake, chatting with Darcy who explained in great detail why her guitar teacher was a total tool who didn’t understand anything about music. How he was stuck in the theory and did not feel the notes. Not like her father did.
A song had to flow naturally, Darcy, a continuation of the thoughts through the fingers into the strings.
After five lessons, she had refused to go again and instead taught herself how to play. A few months later, she was performing her very own song at the local pub. Darcy was so much like her father: fierce in her ideas of the world, persistent in her endeavors.
Louis rolls up the sleeves of his fleece to feel the first rays of the sun after the rain. It is warming up the fat round clouds that are slowly flying towards the mountains. One-step at a time, Louis listens to his shoes chewing on the gravel. An Irish setter jumps into the river to catch a tennis ball, cheered up by a group of children who wish they could join him.
Harry used to love the tranquility of the walk. He would put earplugs on to mute all sounds, replacing them by the visibility of silence: the constant touch of the elements, the smell of life and the bright colors surrounding him. Everything was heightened, palpable. With the warmth of the sun on his cheeks, he would play with the wind, feeling it glide between his fingers.
Louis takes out the yellow earplugs that are always in his pocket. He has not done that in a while. Sometimes Harry would give them to him before reaching their bed. Louis can still feel Harry’s breath whispering silent words on his skin, lips barely grazing him. Kisses on the nape of his neck would spread goosebumps all over his back. It would make Harry laugh every time, his chuckle echoing in Louis’ bones. Harry’s fingers would trace an infinity loop on his wrist to prevent the anchor tattooed on his from being lost in deep sea. Their hard tips would slowly draw shapes on his arm – a compass to lead his boat, an arrow to pierce his heart– ghosts of tattoos he wished on Louis.
How ridiculous would it be to have them done now? Louis had wanted to wait as a promise of better times.
As soon as I leave the hospital, Louis.
Louis clenches his fist around his earplugs, his nails denting his palm. He keeps on walking past the tall trees, the stones beach leading to the cold lake.
Harry used to love sitting on the single iron bench facing the water. He would roll the stones under his feet, looking for the flattest ones. Placing them on his lap, he would clean away the dirt, before offering them to Louis: “Four ricochets and you get a kiss.”
“Four ricochets and you marry me.”
“Do four ricochets, Louis, and I might finally give you an answer.” He replied with a tilted head. His hair was tied up in a bun at the back of his head, loose strands falling on his neck.
Louis did five, a personal record, while Harry just sat there, and blew him a kiss.
Marry me when I am cured, Louis.
Louis takes a deep breath, the smell of wet grass and autumn leaves heavy in the air. It is going to rain again; the mountains on each side of the lake have their mouths full of clouds.
He sometimes wishes that he had not met Harry. That he had not walked through the park that afternoon and stopped by the lake. That he had not skipped stones out of sheer boredom.
Louis would not have to look at their daughter and only see Harry: his flirtatious smile on her lips, his rebellious soul in her eyes, his strength when Darcy walked out of the door at sixteen to become a famous singer.
Their daughter too left him all alone.
The resemblance is excruciating.
Louis picks two flat stones, and throws one in the water, making it bounce on the surface several times. He watches it hit the surface and then flying over it. The stone will always drown in the treacherous water at the end.
It doesn’t matter, Louis. What’s important is the number of ricochets.
A strong shudder makes him let go of the last stone. It rolls down the beach before disappearing into the lake.
Putting his cold hands into the pockets of his fleece, he feels the letter against his wrist. He takes it out and opens it. The letter is crinkled, fine lines spreading through the surface of the yellowish paper. The ink is fading, the outline of his words diluted by time. If Louis did not know it by heart, he would not be able to read it anymore.
After all those years, their meaning is still sharp, stabbing through his heart.
We don't need no piece of paper from the city hall.
Louis feels tears rolling from his eyes and he watched them as they fall on Harry’s words, watering down his prose but not Louis’ pain.
A strong wind blows through the mountains, releasing the greying clouds from their grasp and whipping up the letter in his hand. It flaps on his skin, begging to be released of his hold. He loosens his grip and the letter slides away, twirling above the lake.
Louis has nothing left of Harry.