Little Talks
Two
Harry's pen raced with ease across the parchment laid out in front of him as ink flowed into words from the tip. It was almost laughable to the lad how his handwriting was always so superb when writing for himself, but at times, he was marked down for having poor penmanship on school assignments. He could seldom ever keep his concentration on papers when there were entire universes beyond the school doors and beyond the attic that housed his misery; literature. Harry's room was littered with novels. Some were stacked in corners of the room, neatly organized by genre and author, others covered the surface of his dresser, and some stacked to become extensions of his bed, keeping his feet from dangling off of the edge as he grew.
He had read all of them. By the age of seventeen, his collection had grown to reach one hundred. One hundred vast worlds had existed within his attic and Harry could choose to visit any of them whenever he wished. He could temporarily submerge himself in the lives of socialites and magicians and animals and lovers and not one earthly concern could ever pull him back. Latin papers commonly went undone and led to night-long scrambles to conjugate and synthesize sentences, but at least Harry could say that in the moments that predated the existential crisis that came with pulling an all-nighter, he was a traveler. He was a traveler who had discovered another realm of human existence, one where his body was not riddled with purple bruises and self-loathing, but with love, and compassion, and people whose personalities held depth and peculiarity.
His own stories showed a clear emphasis on characters who were heroic and strong. They did not fight dragons or mass murderers, however; they combated the evils of receiving education from the ignorant; they were the foes of those who ever dared to abuse the ones they loved. His heroes were connoisseurs of science and literature and enjoyed nature and sex and were not afraid to love.
Harry was jarred from his fantasy world when a harsh pounding on the attic door indicated that Harry was to come downstairs and shake hands with his parents' friends and pretend that each step did not provoke a sharp pain from where the leg of his trousers brushed against a fresh burn on his thigh, and that such a burn was not caused by his father pressing the ember of his cigar to Harry's leg when the hem of his school shorts rose too far above his knees.
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Louis returned home from a harsh meeting with his editor that had ended in a heated silence as Louis struggled not to cry. It was not his fault that the inspiration for his novel had faltered; he had so much on his plate with a new home that was becoming both impossible and expensive to install utilities in, and a strained relationship that had become practically nonexistent, and next to no financial support from his family that it was becoming difficult to focus on his work. It tended to happen whenever Louis began a new novel. After quickly establishing a foundation that satisfied his editors enough to buy him some time to complete the rest, he would get a bit bored, becoming involved with other projects and aspects of his life so deeply that whenever the editors' patience had begun to run thin, it was just another stressful thing to add to the baggage of his inevitable emotional breakdown.
He set down his thermos of tea next to the typewriter and sighed deeply as his eyes scanned the blank page in front of him, searching for any glimpse of muse to spark his interest again. At that moment, he yearned for his laptop to distract him, but alas, he was stranded in a home with no electricity or internet. After taking a long swig of his tea, Louis sunk in the old wooden chair and began to type, slowly, spitting out meaningless bullshit to distract his editor and buy him time to come up with an actual story. He prayed that he would. But after an hour of fucking up passages and writing cliche dialogue that would give his English professors a collective aneurysm, he was done. He panted heavily from the frustration, his chair and the table surrounded by a sea of rejected papers, balled into spiteful masses.
1029 South Wiltshire was meant to be a source of inspiration for the author, but every single speck of dust loomed over Louis like a ghost, coaching him onto his inevitable failure, and Louis could not remain in that shell of a dining room any longer.
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Harry watched as Louis growled and stood from his chair, storming out of the home.
He hated seeing the new owner of his home distressed, especially over something that Harry had always found so much enjoyment in. Writing was meant to be an escape, or at least to Harry, it was that way, and it seemed to be a great source of anguish for the lad in the colorful trousers. Harry spent the following evening and the next day wracking his brain for something to demolish the man's writers' block. He dug through piles of novels to find something that he would perhaps enjoy, but none of them seemed to fit. Eventually Harry discovered a stack of his own forgotten manuscripts, stashed in his bottom bureau drawer, and one particular pile of parchment caught his eye. Harry vaguely remembered the story, having written it nearly one hundred years ago; the main character was a bitter man who lived a life at sea to escape his troubles, but after rescuing a blonde cabin boy from the splintering remains of a shipwrecked cruise-ship, he boy in turn rescues him, and he learns to love again. It was one of Harry's best, and he was sure the distressed writer would love it.
Harry set the manuscript on the other end of the dining room table before he was hit with the horrifying thought that the man may not ever return. Until the day he ventured back into the house, Harry sat at the attic window, hyper-aware of each passing moment, eager to hear the groan of the iron fence at the bottom of the driveway opening and the rumble of his car pulling up to the home. This time, he had returned with a few men who walked around the home inspecting windows and doors, and again, Harry had kept the attic door from being opened. "I don't understand what the problem is," the tallest of the three men had proclaimed, and promised to bring something to break through the door next time he returned.
The two men had said goodbye to Louis, and Harry's lips turned up into a grin. He finally had found out his name and he knew it could not possibly be more fitting. It sounded rather quirky, matching the lad's colorful taste in fashion. Harry sat at the chair next to his, watching intently as his eyes scanned the page. He was happy to be sitting next to Louis, completely invisible to him, enjoying the warmth that Harry could practically feel radiating off of him. Louis was the first person that Harry had allowed himself to come near since the night that he died. The house was left virtually untouched after being abandoned. A thief had come through to ransack the home about thirty years before Louis had arrived, but Harry had appeared at the top of the staircase as the man began to climb, and sent him, screaming, out of the open window through which he entered.
Harry had leaned a little too close to Louis and Louis shivered, pulling his jacket closer to his body.
After finishing Harry's manuscript, Louis immediately began poking away at his typewriter, eyes ablaze with a creative spark. Harry watched each sentence form and couldn't help but smile as Louis began to when it all had clicked. Harry could practically hear his mind racing with ideas, just as his own had back when he wrote heavily. It made Harry reflect on his own writing; after dying, eventually every ounce of muse he had for his craft had slowly withered away. He simply had nothing more left to say. But Louis entering his home had sparked thoughts and feelings that Harry had nearly forgotten he was capable of experiencing. He had nearly lost his empathy for anything that was not the box of daisies in front of the home, but when he first laid his eyes on Louis, he felt a deep yearning to know about the outside world. He wanted to know what Louis did for fun and if there were people living on the moon yet-- this was a subject of particular interest to Harry, since he had commonly seen silver objects floating through the sky, leaving smoke-like trails behind them, but he was almost certain that they were not birds.
Small doses of sunlight had begun to creep in through the windows after a long night of writing and the flow of words from the typewriter slowed to a trickle, until Louis's eyelids could no longer keep from falling. He rested his head in his arms on the table and eventually his breathing slowed, becoming shallow and long. Harry quietly exited the house to water his flowers and picked one to give to Louis. Louis had seemed like he appreciated the flowers, so Harry resolved to give him more. Harry tucked the daisy behind Louis's ear, smiling at how the flower accented his sun-kissed skin. For a moment, Harry was envious of the color that was so lively that it glowed with health. He absentmindedly reached out two translucent fingers to stroke Louis's cheek, but they simply passed through the skin. Harry sighed, the reality of his situation enforced upon him. He would never touch a living person again. Initially, Harry had never felt the desire to, but Harry could feel Louis's warmth. It was a tantalizing reminder that his own skin would never be able to brush fully against it.
Louis's eyelids began to flutter and eventually found the strength to open, widening in panic when he'd realized what time it was. He gathered up the stack of papers he had completed that night and rushed out of the front door, muttering a string of curses as he ran to his car.
Harry expected to hear the car sputter to life and pull away, but instead, his ears were met with silence. He peeked through the attic window to find that Louis was sitting in his car, twirling a white daisy around his fingers, staring at it in a mix of wonder and disbelief.
He had read all of them. By the age of seventeen, his collection had grown to reach one hundred. One hundred vast worlds had existed within his attic and Harry could choose to visit any of them whenever he wished. He could temporarily submerge himself in the lives of socialites and magicians and animals and lovers and not one earthly concern could ever pull him back. Latin papers commonly went undone and led to night-long scrambles to conjugate and synthesize sentences, but at least Harry could say that in the moments that predated the existential crisis that came with pulling an all-nighter, he was a traveler. He was a traveler who had discovered another realm of human existence, one where his body was not riddled with purple bruises and self-loathing, but with love, and compassion, and people whose personalities held depth and peculiarity.
His own stories showed a clear emphasis on characters who were heroic and strong. They did not fight dragons or mass murderers, however; they combated the evils of receiving education from the ignorant; they were the foes of those who ever dared to abuse the ones they loved. His heroes were connoisseurs of science and literature and enjoyed nature and sex and were not afraid to love.
Harry was jarred from his fantasy world when a harsh pounding on the attic door indicated that Harry was to come downstairs and shake hands with his parents' friends and pretend that each step did not provoke a sharp pain from where the leg of his trousers brushed against a fresh burn on his thigh, and that such a burn was not caused by his father pressing the ember of his cigar to Harry's leg when the hem of his school shorts rose too far above his knees.
************************************************************************
Louis returned home from a harsh meeting with his editor that had ended in a heated silence as Louis struggled not to cry. It was not his fault that the inspiration for his novel had faltered; he had so much on his plate with a new home that was becoming both impossible and expensive to install utilities in, and a strained relationship that had become practically nonexistent, and next to no financial support from his family that it was becoming difficult to focus on his work. It tended to happen whenever Louis began a new novel. After quickly establishing a foundation that satisfied his editors enough to buy him some time to complete the rest, he would get a bit bored, becoming involved with other projects and aspects of his life so deeply that whenever the editors' patience had begun to run thin, it was just another stressful thing to add to the baggage of his inevitable emotional breakdown.
He set down his thermos of tea next to the typewriter and sighed deeply as his eyes scanned the blank page in front of him, searching for any glimpse of muse to spark his interest again. At that moment, he yearned for his laptop to distract him, but alas, he was stranded in a home with no electricity or internet. After taking a long swig of his tea, Louis sunk in the old wooden chair and began to type, slowly, spitting out meaningless bullshit to distract his editor and buy him time to come up with an actual story. He prayed that he would. But after an hour of fucking up passages and writing cliche dialogue that would give his English professors a collective aneurysm, he was done. He panted heavily from the frustration, his chair and the table surrounded by a sea of rejected papers, balled into spiteful masses.
1029 South Wiltshire was meant to be a source of inspiration for the author, but every single speck of dust loomed over Louis like a ghost, coaching him onto his inevitable failure, and Louis could not remain in that shell of a dining room any longer.
************************************************************************
Harry watched as Louis growled and stood from his chair, storming out of the home.
He hated seeing the new owner of his home distressed, especially over something that Harry had always found so much enjoyment in. Writing was meant to be an escape, or at least to Harry, it was that way, and it seemed to be a great source of anguish for the lad in the colorful trousers. Harry spent the following evening and the next day wracking his brain for something to demolish the man's writers' block. He dug through piles of novels to find something that he would perhaps enjoy, but none of them seemed to fit. Eventually Harry discovered a stack of his own forgotten manuscripts, stashed in his bottom bureau drawer, and one particular pile of parchment caught his eye. Harry vaguely remembered the story, having written it nearly one hundred years ago; the main character was a bitter man who lived a life at sea to escape his troubles, but after rescuing a blonde cabin boy from the splintering remains of a shipwrecked cruise-ship, he boy in turn rescues him, and he learns to love again. It was one of Harry's best, and he was sure the distressed writer would love it.
Harry set the manuscript on the other end of the dining room table before he was hit with the horrifying thought that the man may not ever return. Until the day he ventured back into the house, Harry sat at the attic window, hyper-aware of each passing moment, eager to hear the groan of the iron fence at the bottom of the driveway opening and the rumble of his car pulling up to the home. This time, he had returned with a few men who walked around the home inspecting windows and doors, and again, Harry had kept the attic door from being opened. "I don't understand what the problem is," the tallest of the three men had proclaimed, and promised to bring something to break through the door next time he returned.
The two men had said goodbye to Louis, and Harry's lips turned up into a grin. He finally had found out his name and he knew it could not possibly be more fitting. It sounded rather quirky, matching the lad's colorful taste in fashion. Harry sat at the chair next to his, watching intently as his eyes scanned the page. He was happy to be sitting next to Louis, completely invisible to him, enjoying the warmth that Harry could practically feel radiating off of him. Louis was the first person that Harry had allowed himself to come near since the night that he died. The house was left virtually untouched after being abandoned. A thief had come through to ransack the home about thirty years before Louis had arrived, but Harry had appeared at the top of the staircase as the man began to climb, and sent him, screaming, out of the open window through which he entered.
Harry had leaned a little too close to Louis and Louis shivered, pulling his jacket closer to his body.
After finishing Harry's manuscript, Louis immediately began poking away at his typewriter, eyes ablaze with a creative spark. Harry watched each sentence form and couldn't help but smile as Louis began to when it all had clicked. Harry could practically hear his mind racing with ideas, just as his own had back when he wrote heavily. It made Harry reflect on his own writing; after dying, eventually every ounce of muse he had for his craft had slowly withered away. He simply had nothing more left to say. But Louis entering his home had sparked thoughts and feelings that Harry had nearly forgotten he was capable of experiencing. He had nearly lost his empathy for anything that was not the box of daisies in front of the home, but when he first laid his eyes on Louis, he felt a deep yearning to know about the outside world. He wanted to know what Louis did for fun and if there were people living on the moon yet-- this was a subject of particular interest to Harry, since he had commonly seen silver objects floating through the sky, leaving smoke-like trails behind them, but he was almost certain that they were not birds.
Small doses of sunlight had begun to creep in through the windows after a long night of writing and the flow of words from the typewriter slowed to a trickle, until Louis's eyelids could no longer keep from falling. He rested his head in his arms on the table and eventually his breathing slowed, becoming shallow and long. Harry quietly exited the house to water his flowers and picked one to give to Louis. Louis had seemed like he appreciated the flowers, so Harry resolved to give him more. Harry tucked the daisy behind Louis's ear, smiling at how the flower accented his sun-kissed skin. For a moment, Harry was envious of the color that was so lively that it glowed with health. He absentmindedly reached out two translucent fingers to stroke Louis's cheek, but they simply passed through the skin. Harry sighed, the reality of his situation enforced upon him. He would never touch a living person again. Initially, Harry had never felt the desire to, but Harry could feel Louis's warmth. It was a tantalizing reminder that his own skin would never be able to brush fully against it.
Louis's eyelids began to flutter and eventually found the strength to open, widening in panic when he'd realized what time it was. He gathered up the stack of papers he had completed that night and rushed out of the front door, muttering a string of curses as he ran to his car.
Harry expected to hear the car sputter to life and pull away, but instead, his ears were met with silence. He peeked through the attic window to find that Louis was sitting in his car, twirling a white daisy around his fingers, staring at it in a mix of wonder and disbelief.
Please update I can't wait to read more of it (*^▽^*)
4/23/14