Burn [Larry Stylinson AU]

Chapter Fourteen

x; this is only part 1 of 2 of the leeds scene. i had to split it up because this one was long enough as is (6540 words!!!). it's unedited, but i'll read over it later. so i'm just gonna leave this here. *pats head, kisses cheek, and skips away* +playlist in the external link. Vote, comment, fan, whatever. just enjoy this chapter !

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            If there was one thing Louis remembered most about his granddad, it was his knick knack for collecting whiskey jars.

            He could recall the time he used to find the little old man tucked away in his ramshackle garden shed, the one painted a tacky green color and recessed among the vines and overgrown hedges along his grandmum's parterre. Louis would be swinging on the tire swing dangling from the large oak out back, and he'd catch sight of his granddad taking a cloth to the jars through the awning window overlooking the garden.

            He'd always titter over to the shack and watch Grandpa Tomlinson from his perch on the little stool in the corner of the room. There would always be something old and juvenile – Young Rascals, Charlie Richards and the Shadows, and Louis' favorite, The Beatles – playing on the dinosaur of a radio, the one with the round knobs and had an outward appearance of a cuckoo clock.

            Every time Louis sat in that stool, he'd chat aimlessly about his favorite Power Rangers and what Scooby Doo fruit snack he thought tasted best. As the years went by, he'd ask his granddad more serious questions like why did mum and dad fight so much? and why didn't he find girls with strawberry curls and pretty dresses as great as the other little boys?

            His granddad had looked so old and ancient in the glare of the window; his eyeglasses sliding on the bridge of his nose and his fleshy, wrinkled hands meticulously polishing the jars in a radial motion; face and jowls as weathered as the rain-washed window offering minuscule sunlight and the skeleton floorboards creaking under his weight.

            His granddad had been wise, too. He'd sit and talk to Louis about the stars; stars older than his favorite dinosaur and stars as young as his baby sister; stars the color of burnt orange and stars the same color as the marbles Louis' only friend Jacob brought to recess; stars as small as the mole on his neck and stars as big as the sun itself. He'd tell Louis about the different kinds of plants growing out in the garden and the birds that nested up in the big oak. He had explained to Louis, when the boy had tears streaming down his puffy red cheeks, that boys could like boys, and there was nothing wrong with that.

            “As long as that person has earned your love,” he had said, a 19th century mason jar in hand, “then it does not matter to me who that person is.”

            At the time, he had been Louis' favorite person in the world. Someone to look up to and admire, someone that held the secrets to life and fortune but kept them secret, didn't run up to people exclaiming about his discoveries, but instead kept them buried in his heart, keeping them locked away in an entombed treasure chest until someone asked him about it. 

            Louis would always ask his granddad about the jars. “Why do you have so many of them, Papa?” he'd ask, standing on his tippy-toes to eye the shiny jars and the flat, sloshy liquid encased in them.

            His granddad would hand Louis a cloth and pass him the smallest jar in his collection to work on. “Well,” he'd say, “some people prefer to collect plants, some collect books and others, hearts. Me, well, I have my collection of whiskey jars.”