WONDERLAND ✯ Louis Partridge

5 | A Very Good Thing

Y/N

_

LOUIS' COTTAGE WAS SOMETHING OUT OF A STORYBOOK.

It was almost like it was pulled from an Austen novel, with it's mint-colored shutters, sun-stained bricks, and various trinkets tucked away neatly around the house in the hopes that they'd be remembered and put to use. But by the looks of it, they had been forgotten—specifically a copy of Tea For Twenty I noticed hidden behind the bread basket.

But there was an earthy smell around the place, from the scent of the roses in the garden, to the wooden boards beneath my feet, which brought me a sense of comfort in the most peculiar way.

I half expected a gnome to float through the window and start playing the flute.

"Take this," he had said a few hours earlier, "it gets cold at night."

He had given me a red, knitted sweater, which was big enough to reach my knees. I accepted it immediately. Large sweaters were always the way to go, regardless of how long you've known the person who'd be giving it to you.

And that's why I was here, staring up at the wooden ceiling in his sweater, listening to the sounds of the forest outside. Louis had given me his bed in exchange for the living room couch, muttering things about politeness and how 'he really didn't mind' whenever I tried to protest. His jumper smelled just like him though...a mix of vanilla, lavender, and fresh basil (the herb somehow matched perfectly).

But my thoughts were interrupted by the clinking of glasses outside my door, and the sound of a stove top being flickered on.

Louis must have been awake still.

Despite his friendliness towards me, I knew there was so much more hidden behind the mask one would generally keep up. Or should I say hat. Hidden under that freakishly large top hat with the 10/6.

I failed to notice it beforehand, but now that I'd let the memory replay over, and over, and over again in my mind, I realized something when he whispered the words: I don't date. AND HEY! I WASN'T MOPING ABOUT IT!!!! I was just...curious as to why he doesn't. Did he have something against love? Did he already have someone? Did he....

Nevermind the 'dids'. I suppose I should just get out of bed and see what's happening out there in the living room. The pitch black void outside the window told me it was well past the evening. Pressing my hands against the chestnut-colored door of his room, I gently cracked it open, my eyes scanning the kitchen in interest.

I found him sitting at the living room table with a cup of tea in his hand, per the usual.

"Oh, [y/n]," he said softly, looking up at me, "did I wake you?"

I shook my head, "no."

There was a pause, where he glanced at the knitted sweater pulled tightly around me—which was his, and had been given to me for warmth, remember—and then he looked back at the table.

"I don't suppose you'd care to join me," he mumbled quietly, "just for some company?"

I nodded my head, my bare feet already trodding against the floor boards as I walked over towards the empty chair across from him. Something flickered in his eyes. I wasn't sure how to describe it, so I instead just watched as he reached over towards the counter and picked up another teacup for me to use.

He pushed it across the table, grabbed the kettle, poured the drink halfway, and then set it back down—all while not saying a word.

Something was bothering him, I knew this to be true, because the person I had met a few hours earlier was outspoken and inclined to say silly things without thinking them through. This Louis wasn't like that; he was quiet, reserved, and had his perfect-posture smashed into a sort-of slump.

"Are you usually up this late?" I asked, attempting to start a conversation.

He nodded, clearing his throat, "unfortunately."

And then the conversation ended.

Neither of us really knew what to say, neither of us knew what to do, and yet we were both too hesitant to call it a night and go our separate ways again. The silence between us was better than silence alone. I took a sip out of the warm drink in my teacup, glancing away until one of us got the courage to say something.

A few minutes passed.

"I want to apologize for being so forward," he said finally, setting his mug on the table with a thud, "calling you darling, and making you go through that test."

I shook my head, "it's alright."

"I swear I'm not as jerkish and self-absorbed as I was coming across as"

"And I'm sure you aren't," I nodded, "I understand that you were worried I wasn't serious about the prophecy, and you really shouldn't be apologizing for it."

He opened his mouth to speak, but cut himself off. He was going to end the conversation again. But unlike the last few times, I didn't want to stop talking to him just yet, so I blurted out the first thought that came to mind.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

That seemed to catch him off guard. "I'm perfectly fine."

"You seem sad, and I'm just wondering if you'd like to talk about anything."

"Do I really seem sad?"

I nodded.

I really didn't mean to pry, but there was clearly something bothering him. I could see it in the way his hair was tousled messily, the shadows around his eyes dark as the warm glow of the firelight danced around the room, and his lips pressed into a thin line anxiously. Knowing him for not even a day didn't mean I couldn't sense a thorn stuck in his side.

"Do you..." he said after a while, letting out a deep exhale, "do you think I'm as mad as others think I am?"

I raised a brow, "what do you mean by mad?"

"Lost my mind? Went insane? So peculiar that I'm almost missing my brain entirely?"

I laughed, shaking my head in reassurance, "you seem perfectly fine to me."

"Then maybe we're both mad, and that makes us seem normal."

"You could be very right."

He smiled, taking another sip of his tea with a smile.

Could he be right? I never thought I was anything less than sane, but now that he's mentioned it, he could be completely on the money. While madness was hardly a bad thing, there had to be an explanation as to why I was in this magical world in the first place. Had I just lost my mind entirely?

Or maybe I've just gone mad from thinking too hard about it. For holding this teacup, and getting the urge to stare back at the boy with a smile on my face. He was giving me the exact same look. We were looking at each other with glazed and tired eyes, although for some strange reason, he didn't seem to find it awkward in the slightest. He made this feel more like a compliment than uncomfort—as if he found me interesting. As if I was worth being stared at.

But then he looked away just as quickly.

"Goodnight, [y/n]," he said softly, standing out of his chair, "it's getting late."

Oh.

I nodded, hesitantly standing up as well. He was right. It was getting late, maybe even early if you think about logistics, but I didn't want to leave. I wanted to stay and talk. Drink tea. Learn more about him (in a totally platonic way).

But as I walked back to my room, I noticed that he had moved to the couch. He was staring into the fire now, his eyes stuck on the crackle of logs, and the flames dancing around in front of him like fire sprites. He seemed strangely on edge about something now, as if there was a weight pressing down on his shoulders.

But I shouldn't bother him.