⩶
2212 Miles To Go
⩶
The first words out of Zayn's mouth in the morning are, "You two need to shower." And— Louis casually sniffs himself— he's absolutely right. Two, going on three, days in a van with no AC has created somewhat of a ripe situation. All the same, Harry just makes a grumpy noise and burrows his face deeper into Louis' neck. Forty-eight hour BO doesn't smell quite so bad on him, Louis thinks.
Zayn's got his side of the Garbage Truck wide open, lounging in the doorway with a cigarette between his lips. He seems neither fazed nor surprised that Harry's all but curled into a ball, wedged snug between the door and Louis' chest. Louis lazily stretches and offers no explanation, privately (probably not so privately) smug. It took them a whole two days, but it's looking like the Gay Coming of Age is back on track
His smugness doesn't last however. He inhales deeply and winces at the ache behind his left eye. "Do I—" he starts, voice gruff from sleep. "Fuck, how can I possibly feel hungover right now?" He half shifts into a sitting position, resting a hand on Harry's shoulder when he whines softly. "That's not even a fucking thing! What did you put in that shit?" he demands, mouth horrifically dry. The dull thrum behind his eyes isn't really enough to be a hangover, but he's used to feeling better the morning after a nice smoke, so. This is clearly Zayn's fault.
Zayn shrugs and flicks at his cigarette. "I feel fine," he offers. He's back to zen calmness this afternoon it seems, and Louis would like to continue being bitter, he truly would, but to be honest, he mostly just wants to go back to sleep.
"Don't you own any shirts?" he shoots back, no real heat behind it. Zayn's in the same open brown vest as the day before.
"Would you like to lend me one?" Zayn cocks his head to one side. Louis sighs. It's no fun being irritable and snarky if the other person doesn't rise to the bait. When Zayn leans over, reaching for his sketchpad, Louis' temple gives a particularly annoying twinge. "Oh, no you don't," he warns, lowering himself back to the ground. "You gave me this hangover—"
"Weed hangovers aren't a thing, man."
He's obviously wrong. Also, good natured protests from good looking shirtless men have no effect on Louis. Or, well, at least not at the moment. "You're on first shift driving today," he replies dismissively. He lays flat on his back then, lets the scorching sun wash across his face. Harry wriggles in immediately, latching on like a koala bear.
His toes brush against Louis'. "Coffee," he murmurs sleepily.
Zayn smirks from the door and Louis has to close his eyes because fuck Zayn. He doesn't even know what he's smirking about. Stupid, open-shirt hippie. Harry's nose brushes against his neck then and, "Um," Louis blinks, unduly pleased. Harry lays warm and heavy against his chest. "You heard the man. Let's get some coffee."
✘✘✘
An hour later, they're back on the road, styrofoam cups in tow. That Zayn had successfully managed to coax Harry into accepting gas station coffee doesn't bother Louis at all. It really doesn't. He sips his drink in dignified silence and lets the soothing sounds of Zeppelin bring him inner peace.
Harry's in the front, legs up on the dash. "So. Bathing," he begins.
Wait. Hold up— "You were awake for that conversation?" Louis asks, surprised. Wrapping his leg over Louis' hip had been a conscious decision it seems. Interesting.
"I was just resting my eyes," Harry says. He shoots Louis a sunny smile over his shoulder and turns around again, winding a finger through a particularly buoyant curl.
Very, very interesting.
Louis chooses to ignore the choir of voices in his head begging to overanalyze the situation.He stretches out on his stomach. "So what do you propose then?" he asks lazily, voice a little muffled from where his face is pressed into the shag. The back of the Garbage Truck isn't actually so terrible, he decides. The carpet's a little ragged, but the gentle swaying motion is quite relaxing. The only thing to make it better would be a certain boy—
"We could just find a river or lake along the way?" Zayn suggests, and, of course, leave it to Zayn to interrupt the beginning of a potentially incredible daydream. Harry oohs in interest and Louis— Louis needs to unclench is what he needs to do, in all honestly. Persistent irritation with Zayn and his perpetually perky nipples is not the most productive or rational use of his time.
He makes a concerted effort to avoid sounding greatly pained when he says, "Or, we could shower at a truckstop like normal people?" Not that truckstop bathing is all that normal, anyways.
"Yeah, but," Harry twists around in his seat again, "where's the adventure in that?"
"Bathing with truckers seems fairly adventurous to me—"
"Lou." And Harry just. He blinks. He doesn't even bat his eyelashes or smile coyly or any of the other generally accepted universal forms of flirting. He literally just blinks. But it's fine because good natured protests from good looking men are not a thing that Louis gives into, right?
"Fine," Louis says, draping an arm across his eyes in stupid, embarrassed, easy defeat. A beat passes, and he hears rummaging. A map flies past his face, and then suddenly— oof— Harry's diving into the backseat and right onto Louis' stomach.
"Help me find a river!"
✘✘✘
For all that Louis is trying to overcome his deep-seated resentment towards Zayn, he has to admit, whether he likes him or not, he is a very intriguing character.
"It's a good thing we're passing by a river," Zayn comments to the van at large as they zoom down I-71 through the edge of Ohio and finally, finally(how have they been in Ohio so unreasonably long?) into Indiana. "I've been out of water for days now. Had to actually resort to that bottled shit yesterday." He's got one hand out the window as he drives, cigarette smouldering in the wind. "And, like, I'm starting to feel a little off, you know? So that's probably it."
Taken aback, Louis catches Harry's eye, relieved to see that for the first time thus far they seem to be on the same page regarding Zayn. "...what do you mean?" Harry asks carefully, still staring directly at Louis, bemused.
Zayn shrugs a shoulder and flicks at his cigarette. "I only drink fresh water."
Louis is now beyond confused, and judging by the wrinkle between Harry's eyes, he's not alone. "Uh, pretty sure that's like... a human thing, man," he says slowly. It had always been fairly evident that Zayn was a little out there, but Louis' lost him here.
Zayn just hums in disagreement. "That's what you think. Do you know what kind of shit they put in your water?"
"Shit?" Harry repeats, just as Louis interjects, "They?"
Unamused, Zayn catches Louis' eye in the rear view window. "The government, of course." He says it so casually, so self-assured, that it takes Louis a moment to fully understand what he's implying.
No one says anything for a few seconds. And then Zayn adds, "They put fluoride in the water to cloud your senses. It makes you more docile. Easier to control."
Louis and Harry stare at each other, full on stare for a solid thirty seconds or so, because, honestly, what does one do with this sort of information? That the hitchhiker they picked up in bumblefuck Ohio believes the government is attempting to control the general population through chemicals in the water?
Louis' heard of these people, is the thing. Of course he has. But growing up in small-town Maine, he'd never actually met a real-life conspiracy theorist in the flesh. It's actually quite exciting.
So it's with great interest and sincerity that he hoists himself to his knees and into the front seat. "Okay," he says. "Tell me more."
Louis' reluctant to admit it, but as Zayn gives his whole spiel— and it's obvious it's one he's performed enough times to have down to a T— he's forced to admire the guy. He's wrong, totally and completely wrong, but—
"Do you have any evidence the government is not using fluoride to control you?"
Which, "No. But—"
"Then you can't say I'm wrong," and he's got a point, there. Even Harry's nodding in agreement. So while Louis' not sure he's convinced on the whole thing, he decides it's not the worst thing to believe in the grand scheme of things.
"Most of my bag is just filled with water bottles," Zayn explains. Hair ruffling in the wind, casually slouched over the wheel, cigarette gesticulating freely out the open window, he paints a serene picture. "I just make it a point to keep mostly along rivers and lakes as much as I can. Every once and awhile I have to resort to bottled water. Or worse," he makes a supremely disgusted face, " tap. But that's only if I'm really fucked."
"Huh," Harry says, leaning more or less into the front on his knees, only a hand on Louis' thigh for balance. "But...how do you know they don't put fluoride in the streams and shit, too?"
Zayn's ready as ever for this critique, undeniably poised, and damn, Louis thinks. He could probably have a career as a lawyer or professor or something. "The rain dilutes it."
" Yeah, Harry," Louis says, flicking Harry's arm with a grin.
"Okay," Harry agrees. "But doesn't it, like, give you the shits or whatever? River water, I mean." Louis snorts.
Zayn, nonetheless, remains unperturbed. "Sometimes." And Louis' really laughing now. "But it's the price I pay to keep my mind clear. I can't create if I'm drugged, you know? How am I supposed to make art if the government's holding my mind hostage?"
"Maybe that's why I sucked so much at school," Louis adds thoughtfully.
Zayn nods. "Probably."
"I wish I'd known before. Could've told my mom when she was all pissy that I got straight C's."
But that just prompts a new philosophical rant from the driver's seat about the worthlessness of defined grades, and as a proudly jaded recent high school graduate, Louis would like to never mention the word school ever again.
"Alright, Nipples, that's enough out of you for a few hours," Louis says candidly, pushing Harry backwards gently so that he can rejoin him in the back. "Harry? Be a dear and find Mr. Conspiracy here some music to shut him up."
"Yes, ma'am," Harry rolls his eyes. An empty coffee cup flies dangerously close to his face.
"Now, Harold. I raised you better than that," Louis says loftily, rearranging one of the bags into a semi-comfortable backrest.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah..."
Some tell-tale rummaging and then mutters of, "No...no. I don't even know what I'm— oh, oh. Okay. This is a good one."
Louis doesn't even bother to pretend not to watch Harry's ass as he leans forward to slide the tape in. He's comfortable, possibly ready for a nap to pass the time, but then the tape whirrs, there's a single drum kick and then, "Some people call me — "
Without even missing a beat, Zayn picks up the line. "the Space Cowboy."
Louis groans. "Harry. Why—"
Harry twists around in his seat and grins amicably like the traitor he is. "Some call me the Gangster of Love," he belts out wildly, more than a little off-key from the sheer force of it.
"I asked for music, not a sing-a-long," Louis snips back, haughtily crossing his arms across his chest for effect. Which is not at all totally negated by the unwilling giggle that escapes his stubbornly pursed lips.
Zayn ignores him, voice rising effortlessly because of course he can sing. "Some people call me Maur-ICE." Louis huffs.
Zayn's all relaxed head bobs, fingers tapping softly against the steering wheel, but Harry's halfway to dancing in his seat as they spit out the last line in union. "Cause I speak at the pompitous of love."
Instinctually, Louis really wants to hate this. He really, really does. This is the kind of shit that Oli and Stan used to make fun of him for— singing out loud in the car, let alone belting and dancing. Gay, they'd said. That sort of shit was gay .
And for a split second it's like four years of lame as hell friends and constantly being shit on for trying to have even a mildly good time are staring him right in the face, and it's just— it's stupid, but he suddenly feels a whole range of emotions—— good, bad, and everything between— that he shouldn't. Not just because Harry and Zayn (mostly Harry) are now passionately singing into air-microphones.
It's not pride that almost gets to him: it's habit that keeps his arms crossed, bored eyebrow-raise plastered across his face, even as he pretends he's not biting back a growing grin. But then Harry's extending his air-mic towards him, and his eyes are bright and he's got this dimple that's deepening with every passing second, and— fuck it. When the cute boy that apparently has a thing for you passes you an air-mic, you sing, damn it.
He gives in, the lyrics and maybe something else bubbling up and out. And it feels good, damn it. God, does it feel good.
"Cause I'm a picker, I'm a grinner, I'm a lover, and I'm a sinner. I play my music in the sun..."
Harry sways back and forth in time with the beat, and Zayn's singing way above either of them, and Louis— Louis just lays down in the back, folds his arms under his head, and sings with a smile:
"I'm a joker, I'm a smoker, I'm a midnight toker. I sure don't want to hurt no one..."
✘✘✘
Finding the river on the map had taken all of two minutes. Getting there, however, is a different story. Louis had gracefully acquiesced directional power to Harry this time around— even though he had been pretty sure there was a faster way to get there than Harry's plan. ("Louis, I mean this in the best way possible. Shut up.")
At any rate, now that sing-a-long time is long over— much to Harry's distress— a mellow, peaceful vibe has engulfed the van.
Except Louis can't relax.
He's back in the driver's seat is the thing, and Harry's not only followed him to the front, but has deigned it perfectly acceptable to turn himself completely sideways, back against the door, and rest his feet in Louis' lap, mere inches from his crotch. Which means that Louis is now one pothole away from a foot-induced erection. And that's... just something he'd prefer to avoid on many levels.
He needs a distraction.
He chooses an easy target. "So Zayn, as an artist-slash-bum...how do you make money?"
"Louis!" Harry's heel digs hard into Louis' thigh, which is somewhat counterproductive to this whole distraction idea.
"What?" he asks innocently, glancing into the rearview mirror. "Zayn?"
Zayn scratches his scruff absentmindedly. "Sometimes I buy weed and sell it for twice as much to kids wearing corduroy."
Louis snorts. "That's awfully specific."
"Yeah, well," he smirks, "do you know many corduroy wearing stoners?"
Harry laughs at that, and when he laughs he squirms, and when he squirms his feet land dangerously close to where they absolutely should not . Louis stifles a flinch.
"So, um...yeah. I sell weed. I sell my drawings...I worked at a laundromat for two months a while back. Kinda sucked, but it was like having a huge closet," Zayn shrugs. "Oh!" he adds brightly after a moment. "Once, a guy asked me to show him my feet for fifty bucks." He sighs dreamily. "I'd do that one again."
"Feet?" Harry echoes, very purposefully wiggling his own and sending Louis into panic overdrive. Stay cool, he begs himself. Stay calm. Harry's big toe is more or less poking the head of his cock at the moment, and it's not— Louis doesn't have a foot fetish or anything, but as a permanently horny nineteen year old, he has the grim feeling that any appendage poking his dick would probably do the trick, given the right person.
Harry is definitely the right person
Louis forces himself to stare straight into the sun, hoping the pain will distract from his inevitable semi.
Zayn's now rambling on about how money is a social construct, and Louis is about thirty seconds from either shoving Harry's feet out of his lap or succumbing to a legitimate, full-fledge hard on, and both seem like equally embarrassing options. He spares a fleeting glance in Harry's direction, blinking back sunspots, and— that fucker. Harry's blatantly watching him with a stupid, sly smirk on his face.
And then he inches his foot closer ever so slightly.
"Um," Louis chokes out. "Anyone gotta piss? Gonna pull over." He promptly swerves to the shoulder, barely in park before he's swinging the door open and tumbling out as fast as he can.
Harry doesn't say anything, because of course he doesn't. What can he say? Sorry I give you the intro to a footjob on I-80 with our new hippie friend lounging in the back?
But Louis hears him giggling. So he flicks him off and stumbles back around the van to attempt to piss with a boner.
✘✘
Before them stretches a spring of muddy, brownish water.
Louis crosses his arms. "I'm not fucking getting in that."
It's not a river, really, but more of a stream. A creek at best. And there's no way Louis is putting as much as his pinky in any sort of naturally occurring body of wild water dark enough to completely enshroud even the bottom of the shore. There are probably weeds and rocks and god knows what sort of slimy bottom feeders down there. Indiana is practically the South for god's sake.
He turns haughtily to Harry for backup, all traces of blossoming fondness towards Zayn rapidly dissipating. He wants them to get in this thing? "I thought the purpose of bathing was to get clean?" he complains. He can already hear Zayn shamelessly shucking off his jeans and shoes behind him, but Harry, too, is eyeing the water apprehensively.
"Water's water, man," Zayn drawls easily. Louis glances over, ready to retort, but the words get sucked back in with an embarrassing gasp that he quickly tries— and fails— to mask with a cough.
In the two hours since they'd set their sights on Hack River, Louis'd been peacefully enthralled by the way Harry had kept bouncing between the back and front seats. Apparently , he'd been too caught up in their steady stream of terrible stories and rumbling laughter to spend much time contemplating what would happen once they actually arrived at their destination.
However, even without delving too deeply into the logistics of it all, one would assume that he would've spared even a thought or two to the implications of roadside bathing. Namely, nakedness. With not one, but two unfairly attractive men.
So, Zayn standing butt naked in front of them really shouldn't be this shocking—shit, he's been half naked this whole time as is— yet Louis feels a lot like one of those metaphorical deers in the headlights. That is to say, smashed .
"Uh." He hates how high his voice has suddenly become. Zayn nonchalantly itches a spot on his outer thigh, apparently unfazed. For the second time since this whole debacle began, Louis turns to Harry for support, only to find him shirtless and sliding out of his jeans.
Louis freezes, and it's just— it's so fucking embarrassing because everyone else is so blatantly indifferent to this turn of events, and if he could flush a color darker than red, Louis swears he would, because there is one, one other guy other than himself that he has ever seen naked, and Stan's balls in the gym locker room freshman year hardly counts as something memorable, let alone erotic.
Louis' still rooted to the spot when he hears, "Ah, fuck, that's cold," from behind him, Zayn hissing as he splashes into the the water. When Louis turns back again, Harry's completely naked. He must misconstrue the stress obviously etched into Louis' face as revulsion at the water still, rather than the result of manically forcing his eyes from drifting towards anywhere but Harry's face.
"It's kinda gross," Harry shrugs resignedly, gesturing to the water, "but, it's really freakin' hot, so." And with that he eases into the water as well, tensing at the temperature shock. "Come on, Lou!" he calls after a moment. "It's actually not that bad! Bottom's not even that squishy."
Louis truly could not give less of a shit about the water at this point, seeing as he has been plunked into his own personal hell, which apparently consists of his second unfortunate boner of the day. He doesn't want to say it's his own fault, although it quite literally is, being his body and all, but it's just— it's— there's two of them. The two of them ganged up on him, took him by surprise, and yes, Louis has known he was gay since he was eight and in love with John Lennon, but Zayn's dusky happy trail and soft thighs and Harry's— Harry's fucking everything really— did not need to confirm it for him at this exact moment in time.
He reeks. He honestly needs to bathe, and he was just being a shit before. He would've gotten in in the end. Now, however, it's just a question of logistics, seeing as he's careening past the point of semi and into 'Oh, God, if I get naked my two new friends will see my rock hard dick' territory.
"Give me a second. Jesus..." He turns around, away from the sight of a giggly, wet Harry splashing Zayn in waist-deep water, and swings off the backpack slung around his shoulders.
He's panicking, but not enough to ignore the mildly confusing fact that not even a more than healthy dose of embarrassment has made him flag thus far. Another testament to his youth and horniess, apparently.
He bites his lip and ignores it, pulling out the shampoo in his bag that he'd thought to bring from home. He can't, however, ignore the fact that his stomach twinges each time Harry teasingly yells out for him to hurry up. He strips, knowing that the longer he waits, the weirder it gets, and that there's really only one surefire way to resolve this situation.
Finally naked, he picks up the soap, wheels around, and runs at the water in a full sprint, throwing himself in as quickly as possible. He hears Harry's delighted laugh just before he hits. The water's shallow and it sort of hurts when he smacks the bottom, but the icy water does its job at least, boner shrinking within seconds.
"Fuck!" he curses when he surfaces, still crouched low. "Zayn, you dick! You're off the trip!" Zayn just laughs like he doesn't care, which to be fair, he probably doesn't.
"Throw me the soap," he says. Louis' not sure, but he thinks he sees a hint of a knowing smirk. He tosses him the bottle, aiming for his face just for good measure.
A splash of cold water whips across Louis' back, and he flinches. "Harry ! You little—" There's a shriek of laughter just as he spins around and then another splash as Harry dunks himself under the murky water. Zayn's busy soaping up his hair, and as it seems like Louis' 'situation' has calmed itself for the moment— externally at least— Louis takes the opportunity to attempt to mercilessly attack Harry in a completely nonsexual release of his extremely sexual frustration.
Harry pops back up, sopping hair plastered over his face. "You look like a drowned rat," Louis says menacingly, advancing with arms outstretched, prepping for the perfect splash.
"Now, Lou," Harry says thickly, wiping his hair from his eyes, "didn't your mother ever tell you not to give girls compliments you don't mean?"
Louis snorts. "Oh, I meant it all right." He lunges then, bringing his hands down hard against the surface, but Harry ducks just in time, disappearing back under the water. "Hey! It's not fun if you don't care about getting wet," Louis whines.
Harry doesn't resurface after a moment, and Louis turns in a circle, wondering where he'll pop up. A hand suddenly grabs his leg hard and tugs him down into the water. Louis screeches as he falls and ends up with a nose full of water.
"Fuck you, Styles!" he splutters, and before he even lets himself catch his breath, he pounces again.
Truth be told, under different circumstances, throwing himself onto the naked body of the guy he'd sort of hooked up with the night before, mere minutes after evading a boner-related catastrophe, would probably not be the soundest idea. The cold water has his back, however, and awkward erection #3 of the day is successfully avoided. Although, this is not to say that Louis doesn't immediately attempt to memorize the feel of Harry Styles' naked, wet body writhing in his arms as the sun beats down upon them and the sound of breathless laughter fills the air. It's terribly romantic in a 'wet dream set in a dirty, probably contaminated river' sort of way.
Harry pushes him off with a forceful elbow to the stomach. "Ha!" he crows. "I win! Dunked you, punched you, and escaped!"
The shampoo bottle whizzes through the air. "Lover boys. Hygiene, please," Zayn says, bending down to drench his hair again.
Louis doesn't even blush. He's walked through fire and survived; a little ribbing is nothing at this point. "I think somebody's getting jealous over here, Curly," he says conspiratorily, making a big show out of sudsing up his hair.
"I know," Harry whispers. "He hasn't stopped trying to get a glimpse of your cock since you stripped." That , however, brings the blush back. A small noise involuntarily escapes Louis' throat, and he hurriedly dunks himself under the guise of rinsing. When he surfaces, Harry is horribly close and lathering up his chest in what is clearly a dramatic attempt at seduction. It's cheesy and obviously put on, but then Harry lunges for Louis, holds him tight to his chest and yells, "But I'm not sharing! He's all mine!"
And holy fucking shit. Louis' brain is cognitively able to understand that Harry's just joking around, but his dick certainly doesn't. It's an incredibly strange sensation— being hopelessly aroused, but literally too cold to pop one.
Zayn snickers and shakes his head wildly, shaggy hair sending droplets flying, "Yeah, yeah, calm your tits, Macho Man."
Louis doesn't think he's imagining the way Harry's fingers dig into his bare hip, squeezing hard before pulling away and grabbing the shampoo.
"But you are gay, aren't you, Zayn?" Harry asks curiously, as if he were just picking back up the thread of a totally normal conversation. Louis goes bug-eyed.
"Harry!" He doesn't finish the end of that sentence: you can't just ask someone that!
Zayn doesn't miss a beat. "Nah, I'm not." And that has Louis sinking down low into the water automatically, because shit, shit, shit this has taken a turn for the worst.
He hadn't pondered it much, too consumed by the presence of the other gay boy in the van, but on a casual, automatic level, Louis' always just sort of pegged Zayn as, well— very gay. And even if he wasn't— sure, maybe he hadn't seemed too fazed about the blatant...thing...between Harry and Louis, but there's a big leap between not caring if the strangers you're copping a ride with like dick and having it wrongfully assumed that youdo as well.
Louis holds his breath. He's heard enough at school and around town to know where this is going.
Zayn flops down onto his back, floating belly up. "I like everyone, not just guys. I don't really care about that kind of stuff, you know?" He flutters his feet. "People are people. Love's love."
It's quiet for a few moments, just the sound of Zayn's feet softly paddling against the water and the distant drone of the highway. And Louis...doesn't quite know what to make of this information, but it would appear that no one will be getting punched this afternoon, so there's that. He looks to Harry for his reaction; he's nodding slowly, apparently deeply impressed.
"That's awesome, man."
Louis nods tentatively. To be honest, he's never really thought about— liking both. It always sort of seemed like a one and done sort of thing. For half a beat he tries to summon up a generic image of a naked female body. It's quickly replaced by pecs and that deep V thing that he always had to avoid staring at in magazines and movies. A dude, then. Definitely dudes.
"Boys and girls?" Louis cautiously clarifies, soaping up the rest of his body carelessly.
Zayn pulls himself back to his feet and shakes his hair out again. He makes a face as if he doesn't really understand the question. "Everyone," he replies with a sense of finality.
Okay. Everyone it is, then.
Once they're all clean, or as clean as they can realistically get, Zayn fills up a dozen plastic bottles with disturbingly not-crystal-clear water, which Louis doesn't even want to think about. They traipse back to the Garbage Truck in nothing more than their underwear, "It's too hot to put clothes on," being Harry's reasoning.
Louis' starting to get the feeling that his dilemma earlier hadn't gone as unnoticed as wanted, as Harry had looked too smug when Louis'd swallowed hard and nodded indifferently at this suggestion.
Once they're back and settled, Harry finally allows himself to be bullied into driving ( "But I get so sleepy!") Before they head off, though, he takes a moment to dig through the tape box, tossing a black cassette in co-pilot Louis' direction. "This one's for you Zayn," he smiles, shifting into drive. "All You Need is Love. Magical Mystery Tour Album. Side 2, Track 5."
✘✘✘
The afternoon passes on in an easy, comfortable wave. Zayn shows them what he claims is an extremely detailed drawing of the human eye that he's been working on, and when Louis questions the fact there doesn't seem to be any anatomical aspect to it, but rather just a colorful heap of tiny, geometric shapes thrown together, Zayn scoffs and says that he'd never said they were realistic details.
They smoke a little. They talk a lot. At one point, Harry slaps Louis' thigh mid-laugh and just leaves it there. Somewhere along the way, Louis realizes that Zayn really isn't that bad— at least not when he takes the wheel and Louis sits in the back with Harry's head in his lap.
In fact, it's all rather idyllic. Something out of a book maybe. Hadn't Harry said when they were starting out that he felt like it was the beginning of a movie? Louis' starting to get that vibe now himself, starting to not pinch himself each time he realizes that this is real , this is happening , that there's a boy who wants him right here, right now. A boy who's cute, and who makes him laugh. Who takes an hour to tell a story, but thirty seconds to set Louis' cheeks on fire.
They're crossing into Illinois when Louis finally musters up the courage to lean down close, lips just inches from Harry's ear.
"Remember how I said you looked like a drowned rat earlier?" Harry doesn't reply, eyes closed, but the corner of his mouth twitches. "I wasn't kidding." Harry frowns. "What? You did!" Harry smacks Louis' arm without opening his eyes. "It was cute though," he says softly. "You make a very cute drowned rat."
It's the best he can do. Fitting even, for the silly, dust in the road relationship they've stumbled into. Harry cracks open an eye and his nose scrunches up in an otherworldly level of adorable.
So, yeah. Somewhere along the way, Louis realizes Zayn really isn't that bad. And that Harry Styles might just be that good.
✘✘✘
Of course it all comes to a head later that night.
He'd dozed off after dinner, the weed they'd had as dessert making him a little sleepy, and when Louis wakes up again, it's dark and he's alone in the back, swaying back and forth with the movement of the van.
"Yeah, I don't know," Harry says slowly. The soft burn of the headlights cast the softest glow across his profile, still half shadowed. He's curled up in the passenger's seat pretzel style, back against the door. "I guess I just don't really see myself in that role." It sounds like the ending to a more drawn out thought, a conversation midway through.
"I do," Zayn says. "I definitely do. Someone's out there for me." He says it like a fact, voice stronger, more sure than it was even during his conspiracy spiel. He sighs, tone falling back to careful and calm. "But who knows. We're still young. I'm not too worried about it."
Oh, Louis realizes. Relationships. They're talking about relationships.
"Totally," Harry says earnestly, voice slow and heavy. "Like, this is my first time even away from home. And, man, that's a story for another time, but—," he cuts himself off with a bitter laugh, and Louis frowns in sleepy confusion.
"Anyways, I can't imagine just like...traveling around like you do. I've got, like, zero idea what I'm doing. And I'm totally free, so it's like... fuck, you know?" He laughs then, and Louis is completely still, trying to piece together what he's hearing. "Free for the first time ever, man. So..." he trails off, and Louis knows, just knows, that if he could see Harry's face clearly, he'd only see happiness and excitement and adventure and every other tiny piece that he's come to realize adds up to Harry Styles. "Either way, I just...for now, I just wanna have fun, I guess. All that other stuff will fall into place later."
They're quiet for a moment, and Louis doesn't recognize the music they've put on.
"And Louis?" Zayn asks. His eyes fall closed at the mention of his name.
"What about him?"
"You said you're both from the same place, right?"
"He's from one town over, actually," Harry says. "We only met like...I don't know, like twelve hours before we left? But he's cool, I guess. Really nice." He laughs when he says it, and Louis essentially feels like he's been dumped on the side of the road .
Louis isn't crazy, he knows that they're aren't, like, anything. Not even a little bit. But hearing your name thrown out in the context of a conversation about relationships and being free and not caring and having fun...only to be summed up with, He's cool, I guess?
It's a punch he hadn't been expecting.
His heart is sort of pounding, but— No. Just. No, he tells himself stubbornly. There's nothing, not a single thing wrong with what Harry's saying.
Harry's young and free and away from home for the first time. Of course doesn't want feelings involved with all of that. Why would he? He's just being honest. And normal.
What isn't normal is the way Louis' stomach churns despite all of these thoughts, as if a few kisses and gropes and silly smiles meant anything in the first place. His eyes screw shut, jaw clenched harder than hard as he wills himself to fall back asleep.
Zayn hums in agreement and the conversation continues, off onto Zayn's poetic ramblings about true love and how opposites attract in order to balance our inner spirits.
They don't say another word about Louis. And that doesn't hurt either. The fact that all Harry could only describe him as cool and nice (he guesses) doesn't bother Louis because why should it? Why should it matter what some dorky guy with pink lips and big hands and a bubbly laugh and a sunny smile thinks of him?
It doesn't, Louis frantically repeats to himself. It doesn't.
He takes a deep breath, hopes it reads as a sleepy sigh, and refuses to even blink back the prickling in his eyes, the tiny pings of disappointment. Just waits for them to subside.
Fuck Harry. And fuck Zayn, too, just for good measure.
Louis knows he's being dramatic, but he can't help it and he can't fight it and he can't— fuck, he can't fall back asleep. Not even when Zayn pulls over a while later and they tumble into the backseat. They lay three in a row, Zayn and Louis on the edges, Harry smack in the center, and Louis just. He doesn't think he can pass off any more deep, steadying breaths as sleepy sighs, but his stomach is tight and his throat sort of itches. And—
He feels stupid.
Just really freaking stupid.
And no matter how hard he tries to deny it, even just to himself, he's hurt .
He firmly tries to tell himself that Harry hadn't meant it that way, but then he's just pissed , because even if it's all been nothing, it hasn't felt like nothing, and that's just— that's not fair .
It feels like he's awake half the night stewing in self-pity. At some point his hopeless, hapless circle of angst comes back around, and he's finally forced to accept that it probably makes more sense this way anyways.
A road trip fling. Harry'd never said he wasn't interested in Louis or whatever. Just that he's cool and nice. He guesses. Because he can't really knowthat Louis' cool and nice, right? They'd only met twelve hours before the trip, after all. Harry'd even said so himself.
And even though he sort of wants to jump out the car window and never look back, Louis knows he shouldn't look a willing gift horse in the mouth.
So they hook up once or twice? That's not an opportunity he should pass up. God knows when he'll find someone like Harry ever again.
And at the bottom of it all... Harry's right. This is a time for just living . For having fun. Get to Cali. See Queen. And then maybe they drive back together. Maybe Harry goes his own way, does his own thing. He was heading out to California for a reason either way, no matter how hard he tries to claim it was just because.
Louis' got ten— now seven— days with Harry, and he should make the most of them. And he will. He fucking, goddamn will. Because he's fine. He's fine .
It feels like hours before he finally manages to calm down. It's f ine, he repeats to himself, the mantra of the heartbroken— which he isn't.Heartbroken that is. You can't be heartbroken after just three days.
Just as he's just starting to drift back off to sleep, he feels an arm drape across his middle, a body press against his back. He freezes for a moment, panicked adrenaline rushing through him at first, but then it's tinged with the return of that hours old lump in his throat. He's still for a moment, heart pounding, and he's suddenly overwhelmed with the desperate urge to shove Harry off and press himself close to the door.
Harry's sleep heavy arm is warm, and it's fucking hot inside the van so, really, that in itself should be a reason to toss him off, but— he can't. Melodramatics and all.
So he tugs the arm tight, surprised and unsurprised at the same time when Harry rolls in closer, nose nuzzling into Louis' neck. Live while you're young, he tells himself. Just have fun.
✘✘✘
5 AM brings an orange-pink sky and the heavy ache of explicit resignation. Louis wiggles out from beneath Harry's leaden arm, a generous total of two, maybe three, hours sleep under his belt, and crawls into the driver's seat. Zayn's left the keys right on the dash; if Louis weren't so fiercely committed to not fucking caring about anything at all anymore— which he's never really been very good at in the first place— he might've been able to summon up the energy to kick the moron awake for being so dispassionately careless.
Dispassionately. Maybe there's a lesson to be learned from Zayn after all.
Neither of the boys in the back so much as sniffle when he shoves the key in and turns the ignition. If someone cracks an eye open, Louis never looks back to check.
He starts the engine and drives.
6 AM brings a pink-blue sky and a certain clarity of mind. In the daylight with the summer wind on his neck, Harry's words sting less.
Or maybe Louis just hears more.
Cool. Nice. Free. Fun.
It doesn't sound so biting when he brings himself down from it all, when he allows himself to remember where they are, what they're doing.
By 7 AM, the sky is blue and nothing more. Louis just barely needs to convince himself that he's fine.