Where We Belong

Chapter 7

The drive up to Sheffield feels like the longest of his life.

Harry insists on taking the wheel the entire time, because I need to be in control of something right now, Lou, or I'll go insane. Louis lets him, because he's a better driver anyway and, well, Louis doesn't quite trust himself not to accidentally-on-purpose drive them into a ditch. With every mile-sign they pass, every minute turning into another on the radio-clock, every lane-shift Harry makes, Louis feels more sick to his stomach.

They've got the radio on, just to drown out the silence and the roar of their own thoughts, but when Sam Smith's I'm Not The Only Onecomes on it's just so tragic that it's almost laughable.

Louis doesn't laugh, though. He just flicks the radio off and thumps his head back against the window.

He glances over at Harry, just to see his reaction, but he doesn't seem to have even noticed the music cutting off. His eyes are set firmly on the road, lips pressed together so hard they've almost disappeared, knuckles gone white around the wheel.

"Hey," Louis says, reaching over and prying one hand off of it. When he tangles it up in his own it's stiff, cramp-like, sweaty in the palm. Louis takes it to rest on his thigh, folding it up in both of his own and squeezing it tight. Harry gives a shaky sigh, then a small smile and lets his hand relax in Louis'.

They stay like that for the rest of the drive, Louis' hands around Harry's, holding them closely. It's as much for himself as it is Harry.

*

When they reach their destination, a six story tall yellow-bricked building, Louis starts to feel proper carsick. The parking lot's fenced-up and private and every curb spot's already been occupied. When Harry circles the building for a third time, Louis' gone from carsick to majorly claustrophobic.

"Harry, I need to get out, I need to—"

"Well, I can't find a fuckin' spot, you've gotta wait."

"No, seriously, you need to- just stop the car, stop the fuckin' car, Harry, I mean it—"

"All right," he stops the car so abruptly that Louis nearly knocks his nose on the dash. "Jump out, then, I'm stopped in the middle of the road!"

Louis fumbles with the belt, fingers gone all rubbery, legs like fucking jelly when he finally gets out and runs to the pavement before the honking car behind them mows him down. He revels in a few breaths of fresh air after having been cramped in that lukewarm car for three hours, and then revels ten times more in one single puff of a cigarette.

Harry disappears with the car, and Louis feels terribly relieved, getting a few minutes on his own.

Eventually, he re-appears around a corner, arms going in fast choppy movements and a deep line etched between his brows.

"Did you have to smoke right now?" is the first thing he says once within earshot.

Louis gives him a pissy look. "No," he mutters, flicking it to the ground and stubbing it out, not because Harry told him so, but because he was done anyway, "why do you care?"

"S'just... don't want us to stink of smoke up there."

"What, you think she'll take away your rights to see your own child because your boyfriend smells like smoke?"

Harry just scoffs, pulling his phone out instead of replying. He's tripping, constantly, and Louis wants to grab him by the arm or bite his shoulder just to ground him, but he doesn't. He's been out of the car for a while now, but he still feels nauseated, like he's on some sort of nightmare-carousel. This feels so unreal.