Edinburgh is for Lovers (l.s.)

vi.

Harry followed Louis down a stone stairway that led to a heavy, dark wood door. He pulled it open and let Louis slip inside before him. The room was dark, only dimly lit by candles on corner booths and hanging pendant lamps. Louis led him through the nearly empty room to a corner booth in the back of the bar.
Harry tucked his suitcase under the table and they walked to the bar together. Harry could feel the warmth of Louis' body as he stood beside him, leaning against the worn down bar, and ordered a gin and tonic. He bought Harry a drink too, and they slipped back into the semi-privacy of their booth. They sipped their drinks in silence for a few minutes as the bar got busier. People came in in groups, chatting together and piling into other booths and tables with spectacular arrays of cocktail glasses spread in front of them. Louis had almost finished his first drink by the time Harry spoke.

"Who was he?"

Louis looked up from his empty glass, his soft blue eyes glowing even under the dim bar lights. "His name was Jack."

Harry waited, offering Louis the second half of his drink when he struggled to continue.

Louis nodded his thanks and downed the second half of Harry's old fashioned.
"His name was Jack. He uh, we were sort of together I guess."

"What happened?" Harry leaned his arms on the table. "You don't have to say, sorry."

"You know what happened." Louis said sadly. "It's written pretty clearly."

Harry swallowed hard, he knew what happened.

"He died. A few years ago. From AIDs. He uh, he was with other men, before we were together. He knew when we met."

Harry wasn't sure he could handle hearing what Louis was about to say next. If Jack knew, and he and Louis---

"We didn't do anything. We couldn't."

Relief flooded Harry's insides.

"I mean we kissed, and held each other, and I fell in love with him. But he wouldn't let me stay--when he passed. Said that my secret would die with him."

"I'm so sorry, Louis."

Louis just shook his head. "That's why the sad things don't get better. In my book. You asked that the first day. I was convinced they wouldn't ever get better, that those memories would hurt until I died too."

"Do you still think that?" Harry asked quietly, dangerously hopeful.

Louis shook his head. "Not in the same way. I think it'll always be sad, yeah. But I've reason to believe it won't stay debilitating forever."

"What changed?"

Louis ran his finger over the rim of his empty glass. "Do you mind if I read a bit more?"

"Please."

Louis gave a curt nod and stood to get them another round of drinks. He came back a few moments later with two old fashions and two shots of whiskey. He handed one shot to Harry and slid his drink to him. They raised their shot glasses, and the bitter, amber liquid burned as it ran down their throats.

"Okay." Louis let out a steadying breath.

Harry sat and sipped his drink as he watched Louis flip the browned pages of his notebook, skipping over a chunk that had been ripped out, and onto a new set of full pages. The hand writing looked more crisp, like he'd had a steady hand this time around.

"The ghost bell rings over doors a million miles and three chairs away. Slate, slipped arms, legs, fully dripping from jaw lines and rogue curls."

Louis whispered the last sentence, and Harry's eyes widened when he recognized himself in Louis' words. He let him continue.

"Mirage men in wool and silk don't seek company in lonely words. But suddenly I am softer for it. When he does and when he sits and when he speaks."
Louis downed the rest of his old fashioned. He could feel the buzz of liquor radiating in his limbs, but the scorching honey helped him read on.
"There has never been some word, or someone, who made me feel so intently. But god, my own name spilling from his lips would bring me to my knees. "