nothing // larry stylinson au

Chapter Five

His clothes feel a little itchy, maybe a little too clean for his liking. He's tempted to maybe throw himself out of the car to roll around in the trash and debris in order to feel like his normal self. They're stuck at some faulty traffic lights at the moment, so a quick ponder around the area to scrub up his clothes wouldn't be such a bad idea. That is if Louis would unlock the door.

The city is the scene from an apocalyptic nightmare. Trees scatter the area, blocking roads with power lines tangled through them. Louis has had to make three detour turns and countless swerves to avoid hitting the aftermath of Cyclone Yasi. Harry didn't think it was that bad. But that bad to Harry was like getting no food one day, being smacked and thrown to the cold concrete, and getting a restless amount sleep on his shit, bug infested mattress.

He's had no experience of the outside world, and he's sure Louis didn't miss the face he created when he started the car 20 minutes earlier. He's still shocked that he's moving at 40 kilometres per hour on a flat road. Like... this is a miracle. He's in a car. He hasn't been in a car since... forever, he thinks. He doesn't remember what a car feels like, or smells like, or sounds like. It's comfy, there's a faint smell of peppermint, and the noise from the engine is smoother than Louis' shaven jawline.

Louis told him that they're heading to some supply place where evacuees and emergency packages are held. Louis has been keeping up some quiet conversation between them. Nothing too forward or bitter. Just some friendly get-to-know-you type of thing. Harry asks more about Louis' old band, and his work now, and he replies in short and with the same answers as earlier in the hallway. Even with little experience of social contact, Harry knows that contortion of discomfort and vexation twisting on Louis' face when he answers isn't pleasant. He shuts his questioning mouth.

Harry can't help to wonder why he's so agitated about his past.

But he guesses he's no different. Louis keeps asking about what his life was like before he stumbled into the Tomlinson's shed a couple of days before. Harry answers in soft mumbles, probably incoherent to Louis. Louis keens with interest, however. He doesn't shut up.

"When you ran away," Louis starts, again, "like... why?"

Like why? Why? Is Harry really willing to tell Louis absolutely everything about his past? What could he say? His uncle beat him, burned him, maimed him, kept him in the basement for 9 years, all until the point he found that ultimate chance to escape and he used it? How the fuck is he going to sound so subtle about this?

"I just did," Harry answers. "I did... my family didn't take enough care of me, so I-I thought I could take better care of myself." He looks down to his thighs, and his clothes begin to itch again. He runs his nails down his sweat-pant covered legs, shifting uncomfortably with a grunt slipping from his mouth.

"I can see," Louis murmurs, eyes still focused on the road. "When was the last time you had a proper meal, H?"

Harry can't remember when. "Last..." and with the way Louis' eyes bore into him, he's probably expecting a different answer to, "year."

"Last year?" Harry knows it's been longer than that, but he nods solemnly instead. It halts Louis to a stop in the middle of the road. "Babe..."

He's shaking his head, eyes closed with his head hanging low. Harry focuses on the elder, confused. Louis huffs out a heavy breath before taking his hands from the steering wheel, resting one in his lap and the other in... oh.

"Please tell me you're kidding," Louis whispers. Harry is kidding. It's been longer. There's no answer from Harry, and Louis' hand grips tighter around Harry's. It takes a while for Harry to process to lock his fingers back with him; the feeling is still quite alien to him. "No wonder you're so skinny, love."