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Tired Tired Sea || Larry

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Chapter 1
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& "and I wish I could leave my bones and my skin

' and float over the tired tired sea

so that I could see you again" – Words // Gregory Alan Isakov

(
The wind howls early in the morning, a comforting lullaby for a man
)
who has lived on Fair Isle for almost a decade. Where some would be
* awakened by the sounds of birds chirping, Louis Tomlinson's eyelids
flutter open at the wailing harmony of the wind and sea. Not quite a
, storm, not yet, but the end of October always brings forth more
temperamental weather, like nature slowly preparing herself for the
di!icult winter months to come. Louis shivers a little as he brings his
comforter closer up to his shoulder, hiding his neck under the covers.
Most of the B&B's windows are closed, the one in his room certainly
is, but the wind's whistling can still be heard so clearly, an impatient
and demanding companion that can never fully be ignored. Louis
sighs, reaching blindly under his pillow with one hand until he feels
the shape of his phone. He turns it on, blinking quickly as his eyes
adjust to the sudden brightness. He doesn't actually need to turn the
phone on to know it's half past five. There are no clocks in his
bedroom, but his body is so accustomed to the routine he's
cultivated for years that it's basically a given. Louis almost smirks
when the phone confirms his suspicion, but it barely lasts a second
when he notices that he's only at 40%. He'll have to wait until seven
o'clock to charge it considering that's when the power comes back on
the island every morning.

Louis inhales slowly, then lets out a deep sigh before putting the
phone away. He always prefers a higher percentage when he gets up.
Most days, music in his ears is the only thing that makes his morning
jog bearable and the thought of it dying right in the middle is... less
than optimal. Still, there's nothing he can do but pray his old iphone
won't be a dick today, which, knowing how battery draining the
device finds literally every single operation, seems unlikely. Speaking
of his morning ritual, Louis half smiles when he hears a small clatter
right outside his bedroom, followed by a loud whine. Cli!ord
certainly knows the routine just as well as Louis' body does and he's
already nosing at the door in anticipation, nails clinking against the
bottom. Louis usually rarely sleeps with the door closed because Cli!
doesn't like being alone at night almost as much as his master, but he
suspects a strong gust of wind from a forgotten open window must
have forced it shut, locking his dog outside. Just at the thought
enters Louis' brain, Cli!ord lets out a louder whine.

"'Kay," Louis mumbles to himself with a raspy voice, "time to get up."

It's a matter of urgency now, considering he needs to walk the dog –

and jog in the process, even though his body loathes the idea of
keeping fit – then shower before the guests start waking up and
demanding breakfast from him. Luckily, there's only one room
currently occupied at the South Lighthouse B&B, a married couple in
their mid-sixties who, braver than most, booked time o! on Fair Isle
late in the autumn. Louis' establishment is usually eerily empty this
late in the season, tourists somehow not eager to spend their winter
on a cold, practically deserted island further up north than necessary
and subjected to the harsh weather. Louis, who has witnessed more
than one visitor end up trapped for days a"er their planned
departure date because of violent storms, can't really blame them.
Money is always tight in the winter though, so he can't say he doesn't
appreciate Mr and Mrs Jackson's late holiday. It wouldn't be the end
of the world if he served them breakfast late, they're an
understanding bunch and their ferry back to the mainland only
leaves in the a"ernoon so they wouldn't mind a late checkout. But
Louis prides himself on the quality of service in his establishment,
which means he serves breakfast every day between half-past eight
and ten o'clock. No delays. No exceptions.

He pushes the duvet o! his body, fighting his strong instinct to stay
curled up and warm, then he shivers as he makes his way down the
ladder of his single bed. He's been teased mercilessly and o"en by his
army of siblings for essentially being an adult with a bunk bed, but
the old lighthouse keeper's accommodation was always the most
logical choice for his permanent residence. It's the smallest bedroom
on site, first of all, cramped and mostly uncomfortable, with nothing
but the bed, a dresser and a small window to fill it. It was built to be
functional rather than comfortable.

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