Be My Valentine - 9
The Wind, It Held Your Soul
(T) 1.7k
WW2 AU Soldier!Louis Tomlinson x Doctor!Harry Styles (3/3)
Tw death, implied time period accurate homophobia
Harry swallowed, lump in his throat firmly lodged, hands shaking as he glanced down at the little strip of paper.
18 words. They would be emblazoned across his mind forever. 18 words that changed everything. He still remembered the look Gemma had given him as she handed him the paper.
OR
Harry is widowed in a time he cannot even accept it in public.
A/N: A huge thank you to Ash for helping me figure out the ending! And I love you Nashie and Anna for being there when I was having breakdowns over this! And ofc, ty to Akeyla for holding this fest and these amazing prompts just ah!
Title from Louis’ ‘Holding On To Heartache’!
Harry swallowed, lump in his throat firmly lodged, hands shaking as he glanced down at the little strip of paper.
18 words. They would be emblazoned across his mind forever. 18 words that changed everything. He still remembered the look Gemma had given him as she handed him the paper.
He had run from the stables as fast as he could when he’d heard the cook, Mrs O’Leary calling out to him. It had been months since he’d been sent back after a shell landed at the hospital Harry was working in, onfield. He had been waiting so long. He had thought it was a letter- from-
Louis. His Louis.
A sob racked his body as he bent over, paper crumpling as his fist closed down, nails digging into his palm. The pain was the only thing grounding him right now.
He had to give it everything he had to hold back from screaming. He squeezed his eyes shut, pawing at his eyes with his closed fist. Louis won’t like- wouldn’t- Another wave of anger passed through him as he sobbed, not caring if anyone heard him.
His Louis. The telegram wasn’t even sent to him. Of course it wouldn’t. To them they were nothing. To them they didn’t- couldn’t even exist. None of that mattered. None of it mattered. He wouldn’t even get to hold a funeral for him. He couldn’t face the idea of burying an empty coffin, of having to pretend he was just a coworker- a friend. Like he wasn’t there for the only man he’d ever loved.
He had no idea how long he stayed curled up like that, lost in thoughts of LouisLouisLouis. It was the cold that finally forced him to sit up, head freezing from where he had been resting it against the glass.
He couldn’t even face moving away from the bay window, going near the fireplace. That would involve seeing Louis’ sofa.
Harry remembered how he would climb onto him, slotting himself onto the single-seater, legs tangled with his, toasting crumpets by the fire, sipping the tea Harry didn’t even like but had anyway, just to keep Louis company.
This bay window was Louis’ idea. ‘So we can sit together properly’, he used to say with that grin of his, eyes all crinkled up, ‘Without you squashing me,’- Harry ran his hand over the soft leather, smoothened by the years of use. Everything was his, wasn’t it-
He exhaled shudderingly, distantly surprised when he saw it fogging up in front of him.
His face was cold, tear tracks feeling icy on his skin. He eased his grip on the paper, hugging one of the pillows to his chest as he glanced down,
WESTERN UNION
DEEPLY REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT CAPTAIN LOUIS TOMLINSON IS OFFICIALLY REPORTED AS KILLED IN ACTION JULY NINTH.
Tears welled up, clouding his vision as he clutched the pillow closer, burying his face in it. He cried loudly, beyond caring if anyone heard him, wailing out Louis’ name plaintively.
He breathed deeply when he pulled back, feeling slightly dizzy. He could have sworn he smelled jasmine and cinnamon. Hints of the Brumes perfume Louis liked- had liked- to wear at home.
Sure, it had said pour femme on the little bottle, he thought with a small, sad smile; but Louis never cared. Neither of them did.
He vaguely registered the insistent knocking on the door and curled up with his back to it, holding on to the pillow.
“Harold. Harry, please.” he heard Gemma say, slowly, like she was measuring each word out, but the slight tremor in her voice gave her away “Harry, don’t isolate yourself. I know- I understand you need space. And time. But this isn’t what Louis would have wanted,”
Harry barely registered what her next words were, all coherent thoughts drowned out by the rush of anger he felt.
“Don’t you take his name, not just to console me,” he shouted, stalking across the room and throwing the door open, “Don’t take his name, Gemma. Not when you brought me this godforsaken piece of paper.” He waved the said paper around, tears milling in his eyes despite the anger he felt. He knew his anger at his sister wasn’t justified, but he couldn’t care less.
“Don’t,” he repeated, voice breaking as he collapsed onto the ground, sitting on his haunches with his head in his hands.
“Louis,” he cried, slumping onto the ground, legs a tangle, the carpet cold under him.
He felt Gemma crouch beside him, whispering something that he didn’t quite understand over his own voice, but he stood up when she did, letting himself be led to the sofa by the fireplace.
She didn’t say anything, just gently combed through his hair as he stared at Louis’ sofa.
Louis’ sofa
It hit him at once, and this time he couldn’t even choke out any sounds. Louis’ sofa which wasn’t his anymore. Where he wouldn’t sit anymore.
Harry was grateful for her silence, her company. He wasn’t sure what he would do if he was left alone right now. He couldn’t fathom why he had wanted her to leave. Not her too-
He felt tears silently run down his face, gruelling visions of Louis alone somewhere, over the Channel, lying in a field threatening to swallow him. He tried to push the thoughts away, curling up into his sister, pulling his feet up, and taking shaky breaths to try and calm himself.
They sat there, Harry quietly hiccupping as he felt his tears dry up, only to be replaced by anger. It wasn’t aimed at Gemma this time, though.
“I didn’t even get the telegram,” he said, voice raspy already, “They didn’t even send it to me. My husband is gone, and they couldn’t even send me a fucking telegram,” His voice was rising, and he felt himself shaking with the intensity of all that he felt.
“Harry,” Gemma breathed out, sighing deeply and choosing not to say anymore. Harry needed to get it out of his system.
“They couldn’t because that would mean acknowledging us. They’re too busy pretending we don’t fucking exist and throwing those who protest into jails. I don’t want to erase him, Gem. I don’t want to erase us,” he broke off, closing his eyes as he bent over, forehead resting on his knees as he finally let himself think of Louis, fresh tears streaming down his cheeks.
“I’m not going to pretend,” he said, toying with the congealed dried eggs on his plate, like it was the most natural conversation to have. Like he hadn’t not said a word for two days. “We’ll hold a proper service for him. And I won’t pretend. I won’t talk about how great a person he was, or what a good soldier he was,”
His voice was raspy from disuse, throat raw from all the crying and screaming he’d done, bouncing between mad anger and complete desolation. He took the glass of orange juice Gemma offered with a silent nod.
She had been an angel, a constant presence, never invading his space, giving him the time he needed to process while still being a rock he could anchor to.
He took a small sip, ignoring the tears that were threatening to spill. He would have time for all that later, but he wanted Louis to have a proper send-off, and so would his sisters. And he knew Louis would have done the same, had the tables been turned. Had it been him killed on the Somme.
He quickly brushed the tears away, almost angry at himself.
“It’s okay if there’s another service, an official one, for everyone else. But I won’t attend it,” he said as firmly as he could in his state, “Everyone who knew, who cared about him- about us- we’ll have a separate service.”
That was all he could muster up the strength to say. Gemma stood up, patting his shoulder and kissing his cheek lightly. “He would be proud,” she whispered, “And so am I. I’ll give you some time. Ring for me if you want to talk,”
He pushed the plate away, watching Gemma’s retreating figure silently. He folded his arms and buried his head in them.
He was used to the silence by now.
He closed his eyes as he threw the last handful of dirt, face tilted up as he let the sun warm his face. The tears coursing down his cheeks still stung against the wind, but the golden glow he saw from behind his eyelids made it just a bit more bearable. He wasn’t sure what he would have done if it was grey and rainy.
Sunny days were Louis’ favorite, Harry thought, biting down on his lower lip. He used to love heading off to Kensington, getting some fresh rolls on their way there and having them by the pond. They always had to sit just a bit too far away, and still got suspicious glares from passersby, but Harry wouldn’t have had it any other way.
None of it changed the fact that Louis was gone and Harry doubted if he would ever entirely come to terms with it. With never seeing his eyes crinkle with laughter, or hear him singing his versions of Vera Lynn’s songs. With never waking up to him sipping his awful unsweetened tea next to him, newspaper rustling as he bent down to kiss him. With never seeing him again.
No, he couldn’t think like that. Louis was always the romantic between them, talks of a beautiful after, free from pain and discrimination and everything they hated being brought up whenever they got even vaguely theological, or drunk, or both.
He couldn’t help but chuckle weakly, thinking back to those evenings together.
Some day, he would see Louis again. The jasmine in the air, with not a bloom in sight was a testament to that.
They would never fade away. But for now, the silence would have to do.
A/N: again, I'm so sorry i don't know what possessed me to write this. Don't go and reread the first post. No matter what
Reblogs are always appreciated 💕
