Close to Nowhere (Larry Stylinson)

sixteen

...

"Get out! Get out! Everyone OUT!"

The cacophony of screaming melded into his dream, crackling like static on a TV. Louis snuggled closer to the whatever was keeping him warm, because the sensation was pleasant even though he felt sweat accumulating on his chest and back, dripping down his neck.

"Jessie, GO! I'll find them!" the voice called from that distant place, muffled beyond layers of fabric.

"Mmm," Louis hummed, rubbing his cheek on something warm and sturdy. Harry's chest.

"Louis?"

"Jus' a minute..."

"Wait, Louis, I think-"

Louis could smell burnt popcorn. Who was making popcorn? He was pretty sure the house didn't have a microwave. Maybe it was the kind made on the stove?

"Shit- Louis, wake up, there's a fire!"

His eyes flashed open to see Harry in his face, jostling his arms to wake him. The distant yelling was the sound of Tex telling them to evacuate.

His heart pounded in his chest as they stumbled out of bed. There was no time to do anything but flee. Harry yanked the door open and billows of smoke seeped into the room, making them both cough.

"We have to go!"

Harry pulled him by the arm with haste, but Louis banged his shoulder into the doorway and the link of their hands broke, leaving them stranded and alone, unable to see in the smoke.

"Crawl, we're supposed to crawl," Harry croaked, and Louis heard him thud to his knees.

But Louis was already feeling dizzy, probably from the lack of oxygen which had been consumed by the fire. He couldn't bring himself to get to his knees, but his did peak his eyes open to see the thick black smoke and something beyond it. A woman, a ghost, in full form wearing a victorian dress and intricate ribbons in her hair. Her image was much more translucent than the smoke which was nearly opaque and Louis only caught a glimpse of her but he could feel her. And suddenly he knew what she was trying to tell him.

"I'm right behind you, Harry, go!" Louis called, and oh, was it a lie. He sunk to the floor by the doorframe of Charlotte's room. This was how she died. This was how she died.

Harry must've listened and thought Louis was following him because he stumbled down the stairs and then Louis didn't hear him anymore. He trusted Harry to get out of the house safely, but didn't trust him to stay out once he realized Louis was still inside.

Louis had to do this, he had to. This was the whole reason why he was here. He realized with surprising stoicism that this was the reason why he'd been having visions of burning alive recently. He thought they were visions of Charlotte's death but he had been wrong. He recognized the dark smoke and the ache in his shoulder from hitting the door and yes, those visions were of himself.

Tears welled in his eyes and spilled over, not due to any emotion but because the smoke was so strong and burned his eyes. He had to keep them open because he had to look for Charlotte, he had to see. She was here and she was telling him something.

Journals. There were journals hidden somewhere in her room and Louis needed to find them before the entire house burned down, turning the journals to ash.

Charlotte's journals were the key to the case. They were what he and Harry had been searching for all this time, albeit unknowingly. The stories of Joseph Thomas' overprotectiveness and the men he killed, the bones buried in the backyard. Charlotte had written it all down and now she wanted someone to find it.

Louis caught another glimpse of her but he couldn't be sure if she was real or if the image of her and her flowing dress was just a delusion, a product of oxygen deprivation. His lungs quivered and burned with smoke but still he followed her into the room, to the wardrobe.

He dug through the wardrobe doors but there was nothing but old clothes, untouched since the nineteenth century. He rifled through each door, frustrated, as the house started falling down around him. There were loud noises, crashes, the sound of fire smoldering. The smoke smelled horrible. It burned his nose, eyes, and lungs. He imagined himself dying in the fire and had to close his eyes because no, that couldn't happen, that absolutely couldn't happen.

Charlotte was gone. She had led Louis right to the place where her most important belongings were hidden and still Louis couldn't find them. And he was going to die here. He was going to die here, betraying Harry and failing to help the souls of Ashland Ranch.

If he left now, he might've been able to make it out alive. But the entire purpose of Charlotte's presence would be burned away. And he owed it to her to try.

The house was crumbling down around him. He rifled through the wardrobe again before checking under it, and then behind it. It was arduous to pull it from the wall. His strength just wasn't there, but adrenaline ran through his veins. There was nothing behind the wardrobe except the wall.

Stupidly, Louis thought of the story Harry told him last night. Tracing a willow tree on the wall. In his his carbon-monoxide induced insanity, Louis traced the roots of a tree on the wall. There was really no reason for it. It just reminded him of Harry, and thinking of Harry was better to think about than thinking he was going to die.

Stupid Louis, for tricking Harry into leaving him behind. If he hadn't done that, he wouldn't be dying right now.

He traced the shape of the tree once more, pressing his forehead against the wall. And then he felt something beneath his fingers, something cold despite the sweltering heat of a house on fire.

And- oh. Of course it was in the fucking wall.

He peeled back the wallpaper and jammed his fingers into the small crevice. Pieces of the wall crumbled away, old and tired of existing. He reached inside the hollow part of the wall, feeling eyes on him. Ghosts eyes.

His fingers bumped into a book, it's pages old and crinkled. He grabbed it and searched for others. There were five in total. He pulled them all out, clutched them to his chest, and began to crawl.

The smoke was thick and he had to get out of there. The fire was in the room now, spreading. He was going to die. He had seen it happen before. He had even dreamt about it, and Harry had probably seen it too. That was why he was so worried. That was why he was so overprotective. That was why he demanded to come with Louis to Tennessee in the first place. He was trying to prevent this exact thing from happening.

Louis was almost to the stairs when the floor gave out and he fell through it. And then everything went hazy. Not like he was dying hazy, though he was dying, but like he was having a vision hazy. Distinctly, he thought, this is a horrible time to have a vision.

Sitting at the kitchen table, wearing flannel pajama pants and a sweater that was too big to be his. The sound of bacon sizzling, pancake batter mixed in a bowl, slicing strawberries on a cutting board. Whipped cream and cinnamon. Gazing out the window and seeing the ocean. Laughing at Harry singing, but delighting in it too.

Harry kissing him on his way to the table. Soft, sweet lips on his own. Looking down at his left hand and seeing a ring on his finger.

Louis would've laughed if he wasn't already having a hard time breathing. He came back to reality crumpled in a heap on the floor, surrounded by fire. He had just dropped ten feet from the floor above. Something must've been broken but he couldn't feel anything, break or no break. Fire or no fire.

If he didn't move, he was going to die. But he didn't have to die. He still had a future. A possibility, which included Harry, because of course it did. A future that included eating breakfast on a lazy Sunday morning in their kitchen. Their kitchen.

Louis really did laugh this time. He was going insane. He was also on the verge of dying due to smoke inhalation. Either that or the ceiling caving in on him. He really had to get out of here.