Wardo was soaked through by the time he reached Louis’ apartment. The heavens had opened up whilst he’d sat, practically catatonic in an overlit, rattling subway cart. He’d emerged from the station steps and had been drenched almost immediately. It hadn’t halted his path though. He’d continued to stride along the street, kind of like he didn’t notice the rain at all. It didn’t matter that his shirt was sticking to his skin, or that his hair was plastered to his forehead, or that he was leaving a not-small puddle on the doorstep. He’d only had one mission in mind: get to Louis’ apartment. Get to Louis.
He wasn’t meant to see him until tomorrow. That was what they’d agreed upon, and it was what Wardo has been psyching himself up for ever since he’d put his phone down and forced himself to stop texting the other man. He was gonna hang out with Louis Denver the next again day, stay over at the other man’s apartment and then hope that the pillow barrier he’d talked about had the durability of a nuclear-proof bomb shelter to stop Wardo trying to subconsciously dismantle it in his sleep.
Trying to take his mind off of the inevitability of his impending mental breakdown hadn’t worked. Nothing had distracted him; not walking Capote, hassling Bryce or even watching Special Agent Dale Cooper boop Sheriff Harry Truman on the nose in a move that had introduced Wardo to the world of queer fanfiction when he was an eighteen-year-old fresh out of juvie.
Nothing had calmed his nerves and the last thing he wanted to do was pick up his phone and text Louis again in a fit of sheer desperation just because he, what? Missed him? Needed to hear another sarcastic comment from the other man? Or a cleverly worded put-down that made Wardo flush with pride instead of feeling insulted. He wouldn’t let himself give into that though. No matter how much he’d thoroughly managed to mortify himself earlier, he still had a modicum of pride to hold onto.
And that was when his eyes had drifted to his bookshelf.
The paperback had been left sitting there as a result of one of Bryce’s less-funny pranks. Even Ivy had widened her eyes and grimaced when he’d come home one day, brandishing it and declaring it a must-read. The chill that had descended on the room had been close to sub-zero and, perhaps childishly, Wardo hadn’t spoken to Bryce for the rest of the day.
He hadn’t thrown it out though, meaning that he was now able to slowly cross the room and slide it out from where it had been sandwiched between if Beale Street Could Talk and, more embarrassingly, the first volume of Heartstopper. He’d have loved to have pinned that one on Bryce as well, but alas.
With trembling fingers he’d held the copy of Christopher Street in his hands, tracing Louis’ name on the front cover and then very slowly, opening it up to the dedication page.
To him, wherever he is.
As ever.
Lou.
His breath left him at once and he lifted his head, a lump in his throat. His gaze caught on Ulysses, perched by the windowsill and licking his front paw. The cat stopped, amber eyes fixing on Wardo curiously.
“That could be anyone, right?” he asked, shakily.
Ulysses responded with a condescending meow. Like if a cat was able to say yeah, right.
He couldn’t let his ego nor his make-believe foray into feline bilingualism convince him that this had anything to do with him. But fuck if the idea of Louis pressing his face into another man’s neck and declaring, “I love you. As ever.” into his didn’t make him feel sick.That had… Well, that had been theirs, hadn’t it?
His butt hit the couch cushion heavily, the springs creaking underneath his weight as he gripped the book tighter. And then he’d turned the page and, finally, started reading.
Hours passed. The sun dipped behind the Manhattan skyline and his living room became a victim to the night, but that didn’t stop him from straining his eyes and probably giving his vision permanent damage in order to pick out the words in the low light. Eventually, he’d managed to tear his gaze away from the page for long enough to reach over and yank on the cord of his lamp to switch it on, casting the room in a yellow glow that made it easier for him to sit back and process what Louis was telling him. Telling everyone that read his book.
The New York part made his heart leap into his throat. The arrival of Maisie made him huff out a laugh. God, he hoped Ivy had given him hell for that. A white cat showed up, Topher made the football team and a boy named James Marlon was somehow, inexplicably, labelled the love of his life. Salty drops of water splattered onto the page when Wardo read that part and he wanted to yell at James not to be an idiot. To stop making himself so available to Topher. Because he might not know how the book ended, but he knew that James’ story was going to draw to a close.
A stupid part of him hoped. Hoped that maybe it would work out for them. It was a similar sort of stupid optimism that was similar to finding out that Orpheus had negotiated Eurydice’s freedom from Hades. A fleeting moment of victory before the rest of the narrative was doomed to fail.
Then, the Lowell chapters arrived and Wardo found himself, stomach heaving, as he knelt beside his toilet. He retched when the truth slammed into him with a painful clarity. It wasn’t like it was written in black and white. But Wardo knew what Louis was trying to tell him. What he’d been trying to tell him for months, and what Wardo had refused to hear. Another wave of nausea hit him and after brushing his teeth in a daze, he barely managed to carry himself back to the sofa on his shaky legs.
It had been difficult to finish the book after that, not without sinking his teeth into his knuckle so hard he broke the skin. But he owed it to Louis. He’d shut the man out for over a year now, only giving himself over to him in tiny increments when Louis had been trying to be honest and vulnerable with him. The least he could do now was finish his book.
And when he did, he wasted no time in jumping off the sofa and running out of his apartment.
Which brought him to this moment right now, hammering on Louis’ door at 3am, forgetting that the other man had three other roommates who wouldn’t appreciate being woken up at this time. Hell, Louis would probably have a few choice words for it himself. Whatever. He was allowed. Louis should be able to call Wardo every sorry name under the goddamn sun right now. And Wardo half-expected a slew of angry words thrown at him when Louis eventually opened the door. Instead, the other man looked confused.
Wardo stared at him, at his sleepy expression and his messy hair and his heart broke.
“Is it true?” he asked, his voice hoarse. He felt his face crumple again and, knowing he couldn’t stammer his way through an explanation, he fumbled in his comically large pocket for the book he’d stuffed in there. He tugged and Louis’ labour of love came free, water-damaged with a cracked spine and the pages curling at the corners from the rain.
Wardo gripped it tightly and asked again, voice cracking, “Is it true?”