a runaway american dream (hs/lt)
title: a runaway american dream
pairing: harry styles/louis tomlinson
word count: ~16,000
disclaimer: hilariously untrue.
summary: AU. they take route 66 with only each other and their secrets.
warnings: instances of homophobia, brief use of a slur.
notes: thank you so much to everyone who read over parts of this and reassured me it wasn't shit or a lost cause. i am tentatively proud of the way this turned out and i have so much hope that you all like it.
(quick logistical detail: the age to rent a car in the united states is 25. neither harry nor louis are 25 in this fic. please suspend disbelief regarding that, i apologise. and also, i have never driven route 66, so there's that.)
The problem, Louis thinks, is that he and Harry tell each other everything. It's become, like, a thing. It started when they were twelve and Louis was burning up inside with his secrets and Harry curled up next to him, petting his hair, all big eyes and turned down red mouth, begging Louis to tell him what was wrong.
So it's a thing, now. They have a night, every year, where they stay in and eat pizza and watch some sad movie probably targeted at a female demographic and tell secrets they can't keep inside anymore.
At twelve, Louis told Harry he liked boys. At fifteen, Harry told Louis he kissed Jessica even though she was dating Ethan. At seventeen, Louis told Harry he let Jackson fuck him. At eighteen, Harry told Louis he accidentally read his dad's email and found out his dad had been cheating on his mum. At twenty, Louis told Harry his family couldn't afford for him to go back to uni.
And now Louis is twenty one and Harry's sprawled out on the couch next to him and Blue Valentine is on the telly, volume down and unnoticed, because all Louis can see are Harry's shining eyes and all Louis can hear is Harry's secret ringing in his ears.
"Lou?" Harry asks, kicking his feet out at Louis's knee. "You hear me?"
Louis swallows tightly and smiles, as big as he can, immediately crawling over to drop heavily on top of Harry, rubbing his nose into his cheek. Harry's arms come up around him, digging into his sides, tickling. "I'm so proud of you," Louis whispers. "God, H, that's amazing."
Harry lets out a pleased little breath and Louis closes his eyes as he feels it ruffle through his hair.
"Harvard business school, mate," Louis repeats, letting it dig deeper into his chest, sinking into his body. "That's so..."
"Yeah," Harry says, shaking his head a little bit. Louis rests his forehead in the stretch of muscle between Harry's neck and shoulder, biting down softly. "I can't believe it," Harry breathes out.
Louis laughs lightly, sitting up on Harry's thighs. He looks down at him, still stretching a grin across his face. "I can," he says softly. "You're brilliant, H, you deserve this."
Harry rolls his eyes a little, blushing. He flicks Louis lightly on the thigh. "Anyway, your turn."
Louis bites his lip and slides off Harry's lap into the gap between his skinny legs and the back of the couch. He stares at the television. "Ryan Gosling is hot," he says.
He can feel Harry's eyes rolling. "Not a secret."
Louis laughs a little. He shrugs. "Haven't got one this year, I guess." He chances a glance at Harry.
Harry stares at him, eyes narrowed. "Bullshit. How are you and Aiden?"
Louis shrugs again, picking at the seam of his trousers. "I dunno. It's ending, I think."
"What?" Harry sits up, looking intently at Louis's profile. "I thought you guys were, like, solid."
"Yeah." Louis chuckles dryly. "No, I don't know. It's fine, but he's moving to London in a few months and we've kind of talked about it, you know. It's casual."
Harry's hand snakes out to grab Louis's, intwining their fingers. "I'm sorry, Lou."
Louis rolls his eyes and tugs a little on Harry's fingers. "Shut up, god, it's fine. We need to celebrate your news! I have some champagne, I think, hold on." He heaves himself off the couch and pads into the kitchen.
It's all autopilot now: he pulls open the fridge and grabs one of the bottles of champagne that lives in the door, setting it on the counter and reaching up for two pint glasses. As he starts unwrapping the foil around the mouth of the bottle, his hands start shaking and Harry's words sink in.
Harry's leaving. Not to London, not to some fancy job somewhere in the UK, not even to Europe. Harry's leaving to America and Louis is rotting in a dreary northern city with a boyfriend he doesn't particularly care about in the mornings, a laughable amount of education, and a pathetic job as a receptionist.
And it's not like Louis wasn't expecting this, in all honesty. Harry's always been so smart, so devoted, so encouraged. Harry's never been anything but shining; brilliant at everything, smart and loving and wonderful. Louis knew, somewhere inside him, that Harry would grow up and out and away, away from his deadbeat, directionless best friend. Louis would never, ever want to drag him down; keep him from that potential. It's just, knowing and preparing are two horribly different concepts, and Louis is not prepared.
Louis's secret is that he is in love with Harry. And for the first time since he was twelve, that's going to stay a secret.
*
A month later, when June warmth was finally reaching Manchester, Louis knocks on the door to Harry and Niall's flat, rolling his lips into his mouth.
Harry pulls the door open and Louis glances at him, breaking into a grin. "Love the hair, mate," he says, pushing past Harry and into the kitchen, digging into Niall's cupboard of food, surfacing with a bag of cheetos.
Harry smirks, hand coming up to adjust the ribbon tying his curls back. "Thanks, I'm thinking this is really gonna be the fashion in the fall, yeah?"
Louis nods, glancing around the flat, noticing the half-full boxes and general chaos. He swallows the handful of cheetos in his mouth and says nonchalantly, "Packing, then?"
Harry shrugs. "Yeah, lease is up on the 15th and Niall's got Zayn moving in, so, yeah, figured I'd stay with my mum till I leave."
Louis's lips quirk up as much as he can make them. He nods slightly. "So, um, hey," he starts.
Harry quirks an eyebrow at him and turns back to a box labeled BOOKS. "What's up, Lou? Haven't seen you much lately." His voice is a little curious, a little hurt, and a little cold.
Louis bites his lip again. "Yeah, sorry, been working a lot. I, um. Well, you might laugh at me a bit, but like. I..." he trails off, staring into the bag of crisps and kicking at the cupboard under the counter that never stays closed.
Harry turns back to him, eyebrows furrowed, and pads back into the kitchen, leaning against the fridge across from Louis. "What's up, Lou?" he says again.
Letting out a slightly breathy laugh, shaking his head a bit. He scuffs the toe of his shitty, beat-up vans against the shitty, beat-up linoleum. "This is dumb, but like. I've kind of... been thinking? That maybe we could do something? Before you go off to your big American life. You know?" He looks back up at Harry, fingers twisting together.
Harry's eyebrows raise and his mouth parts slightly. "Yeah, of course! Of course, Lou, god. Why's that dumb, you idiot?"
Louis shakes his head, scrunching his nose at Harry and smiling, closed-mouth and small. "Yeah, I mean. It's just I've been planning a bit? And like. Saving some money, I guess. And I was thinking, like. Have you seen that episode of An Idiot Abroad? Where Pilkington does Route 66?"
"Uh, yeah, I think so..." Harry says slowly, not looking any less confused.
Louis nods, dropping his eyes again. "I was kind of thinking maybe we could do that?"
Harry blinks. Once, then twice. Louis scrunches his face up again. After a moment, Harry speaks, "You wanna do Route 66 with me?"
Louis's fingers are losing blood from twisting together. "A last hurrah kind of thing, you know? It'd be cool. And get you all Americanised." He laughs a little. "We could leave, like, soon, maybe? Fly into Chicago and rent a car and, y'know, take off."
Harry's staring at him blankly. "But... your job? And, like, that's expensive, Lou, how're we gonna..."
"Oh," Louis says quickly. "I've been saving up and I've looked into flights and they're not too bad if we don't fly in on a weekend and if we get a small car and stay in cheap motels and eat shitty food we should be okay, I think?"
Harry's starting to nod, a slow smile stretching across his lips. "I've got some money saved up too, like. I was gonna use it to fly back here for Christmas, but I'm sure my stepdad can fly me out if they end up missing me, right?"
Louis feels himself relax, feels his fingers slow their twisting, feels his shoulders slump back down from around his ears, feels his forehead smooth out. He beams back at Harry. "It'll be the best summer ever, mate. Legendary."
Harry grins back, giddy suddenly, and grabs Louis's hand, tugging him into his body. He wraps his arms around Louis, burying his face into Louis's neck. "Love you."
Louis runs his hand down the curve of Harry's back, smiling tightly at the wall behind him. "Love you too, H."
*
Chicago is hot as fuck in mid-June, it turns out. Louis was not expecting this. All he knows of Chicago is gangster movies and, like, snow. Or something. He's sweating through his thin teeshirt and his stupid khaki trousers and Harry's next to him, looking haggard and tired.
Harry pulls his shirt up to wipe the sweat from his face and Louis very carefully and very deliberately saunters over to the terminal map, trying to figure out where the fuck car rental is. Harry comes up behind him, resting his elbow on Louis's shoulder.
Louis pulls a face, but says, "So, baggage claim is that way-" he points, "-and the rental agency is in the next terminal, I guess? So we'll have to take a train thing. Sound good?"
Harry's head is resting on the arm he has on Louis's shoulder, but he nods, hair brushing Louis's neck. "Sounds good, Lou," he mumbles.
They end up with an older model of a Toyota Corolla. Louis nudges Harry over to the car as he signs all the paperwork, watching out of the corner of his eye as Harry drops his bags into the boot and then slumps in the passenger seat.
Louis nods his thanks at the attendant, grasping the keys in his sweaty hand and making his way over to the car. As he slides in, Harry cracks a bleary eye in his direction. "You good to drive on the wrong side of the road, mate?"
Louis gives him a tired half-smile. "Think so. Hopefully we won't have to make too many turns, yeah?" Harry quirks his lips up slightly.
"We'll kip before we do anything, superstar," Louis says quietly. Harry nods, eyes closing. Louis stares at him for a moment, the late afternoon Chicago sun beating hotly down on the car and making Harry's pale skin bright, as if lit up from the inside. There's sweat pooled in the hollow of his throat, and his cheeks are slightly red, sunburnt already. There are lines on his forehead and around his eyes, as he squints against the brightness, too tired to find his sunglasses. Louis licks his lips and takes a deep breath, shaking himself slightly. There's a six hour time difference; he's knackered. They need a cheap motel and hamburgers, like, three hours ago. He sighs and shifts the car into gear, backing out of the car park.
Louis finds an old, seedy motel within a half an hour. It advertises cable and a forty-five dollar single room. Pulling up next to the office, he nudges Harry awake with his elbow before gently brushing Harry's hair off his face.
Louis hates himself a little when Harry's eyes open, bleary and tired, and Louis can't control the soft smile he knows should be giving him away.
Harry doesn't notice, just smiles back. "Here?" he asks, raspy.
Louis nods. "Gonna go grab a room, yeah? Wanna come or stay here?"
Arching his back off the seat, stretching his long arms, and letting out a groan, Harry smacks his lips together, finally saying, "I'll come with." He unfolds himself out of the car and throws his arm around Louis's shoulder, leaning heavily into him. Louis wraps his own arm around Harry's waist, taking the weight.
A woman who has smoked herself into middle age raises one heavily penciled-in eyebrow at them as they approach the desk. "Can I help you?" she drawls.
"Er, yeah," Louis says and watches the woman's expression change as she catalogues his accent. "We'd like a room, please."
"Single or double?" she asks, glancing between Louis and Harry, eyes lingering where they're pressed together. Louis's chest feels tight and he licks his lips again, every point of contact between him and Harry alight with nerves.
"Single, please," he says, as casual as he can manage. He thinks he sounds breathless. He possibly hates himself a lot. Harry's half asleep on his shoulder, breath heavy and stale on his neck.
It's hot and it's humid and Louis has his favourite boy slumped into him and they're going to be sharing a bed and Louis has to close his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed.
The woman behind the counter just gives them another eyebrow raise and snaps her gum, sliding a paper for Louis to sign as he passes over his credit card. She drops a room key on the counter and gives Louis a long look and a cheeky wink as he grabs it.
Pressing the key into Harry's hand, he nods down the long stretch of doors as they exit the office. "Go find the room and hop in the shower, yeah? I'll bring the car around," he says and Harry nods, eyes heavy-lidded and smile sweet. Louis watches him walk down the corridor for a moment before sinking back behind the wheel.
When Louis stumbles into the room with their bags, he hears the shower running, Harry's clothes forming a path on the floor to the bathroom. Louis sinks down on the bed, laying back and sighing deeply. The air is damp, but luckily there's air conditioning, and the sweat on Louis's skin prickles, drying into a tacky sheen on his skin.
He feels proper disgusting.
"Hey," Harry's voice comes rasping from the doorway to the bath. He's smiling at Louis. Louis blinks a few times.
"Must've drifted off," Louis says, pulling a face at Harry. He takes a deep breath and hoists himself to his feet, toeing off his shoes and pulling his shirt over his head. "Shower," he mumbles.
Harry nods, patting Louis's side as he walks past him into the bathroom.
When Louis finally scrubs the interminable flight and sticky American summer off his skin, he pads back into the main room, digging out a pair of clean pants. Harry's spread across three quarters of the tiny bed, breathing deeply.
Louis bites his lip and eyes the tiny sliver of mattress left for him. He rolls his eyes to the sky and mouths why before climbing in, shoving Harry's warm body a little.
"Hmm?" Harry sounds, grumbling a little.
"Budge over," Louis whispers. "You've got not even half the arse I have, mate."
Harry smirks slightly, eyes still closed, and he scoots back to free roughly half the bed, and Louis tweaks a curl in thanks. He rolls over, putting his back to Harry and closes his eyes, taking slow and steady breaths until he feels himself relax.
And then, of course, that is kicked to hell because Harry moves suddenly, moves till he's pressed against Louis's back, curved around him, and sliding a hand around his waist, pulling him into Harry's body.
Louis's eyes fly open and his muscles tense immediately.
There's no sound in the room but Harry's even breathing, quiet, hot, and damp against Louis's neck.
*
The sun beats in through the dirty window at half eleven in the morning and Louis wakes up sweating, sticking to the sheets and to Harry, still curled around him. Groaning, he buries his face in the pillow for a moment, before taking a deep breath and rolling out of bed. He washes his face and brushes his teeth, staring at himself in the mirror. Jet-lag isn't a great look for him, he decides, as he lazily gels his hair into a halfhearted quiff.
"Oi," he calls, stumbling back into the bedroom. "Lazybones."
Harry doesn't stir. Louis rolls his eyes and grabs his calf, shaking. "H," he says. "Get up."
Harry mumbles a bit, cracking an eye, and then flopping over onto his stomach.
"Harry," Louis raises his voice. "We've got an itinerary, mate, get the fuck up."
"You're the devil," Harry groans into the mattress. "Feel like I've been hit by a truck."
"Come on, princess," Louis says. "We've got lands to conquer. Go west, young man, and all that."
Harry finally sits up, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Yeah, Lou, you're a real literary genius."
"Fuck off," Louis replies mildly. "Get dressed. We'll get some breakfast on the road. We'll check out Grant Park, I think, and then head on to Dwight and Odell, probably stop in Pontiac for lunch."
Harry looks at him. "You've really got this planned, haven't you?"
Louis smirks. "It's gonna be legendary."
"Alright," Harry says, rolling out of bed. "Let's do this. Middle America, here we come."
The temperature is already climbing once they check out of the motel, and the stale air in the tiny car is suffocating. They decide to get as far as they can with just the windows down, avoiding the use of the air conditioner, and Louis can't stop smiling over at Harry.
"California, here we comeeee," Harry yells, sticking his head out the window with a whoop, hair whipping across his face. He leans back into the car, grinning giddily at Louis. "Everything is so American," he exclaims. "Look at these signs, mate, I feel like we're in a Jack Kerouac novel."
Louis blinks innocently. "Who?"
Harry just laughs, throwing his feet up on the dash and reclining his chair. "Man, cornfields and all. We're gonna be proper outsiders, you know? We should stop at bars and see what American girls are into. They'll probably think we're cultured as hell."
Louis wrinkles his nose a bit, shaking his head with a small chuckle. "I'll leave that one to you, love. You'll just have to give me the PG-13 version later, yeah?"
Harry smiles over at him, and Louis can see his eyes crinkling behind his wayfarers. "Come on, mate. What's more American than a threesome? I'm sure you could get into that."
"Actually," Louis says, rolling his eyes as he stares at the road, "I'm pretty sure that's a French thing."
Harry sighs, defeated. "Fine. Well, then, you can pick up blokes and I'll pick up chicks and we'll get the whole spectrum of experience."
"Harry," Louis says dryly, "I am pretty sure we're in redneck country. I can live with a few weeks of celibacy, don't you worry about me."
Harry's quiet, thinking about this for a moment, until, "Okay, yeah, don't want your pretty face to get broken. When we get to California, though, mate, I expect you to go buckwild."
Louis rolls his eyes again and tosses Harry his iPod. "Choose something. Some road music, though, none of your weird faucet-dripping, alt-hardcore, undefined-genre shit."
Harry snorts, but obliges, scrolling through, muttering, "Well, people will think I'm cultured at least," as he settles on Bruce Springsteen.
Louis glances at Harry, grinning hugely, and Harry reaches over to grab Louis's right hand off the wheel, holding it tight.
"Cos tramps like us, baby, we were born to run!" Louis yells over at him and Harry laces their fingers together.
*
Louis stops at every roadside attraction that catches Harry's attention, and by the fifth, Harry proclaims, "I'm going to start a bolo tie collection."
"Harry," Louis groans. "This is not the eighties and I still have to be seen with you."
Harry beams at him and picks up a rainbow one from the display at some kitchy cowboy -themed market sprawled along the highway in rural Illinois. He holds it up to Louis's throat. "Suits you, I think."
Louis bats him away. "Save your money, babe."
Harry just laughs and scampers out the door onto the rickety boardwalk, staring up at the old-time wooden façade. "This is amazing," he says, and the sun is catching his curls and his skin in his white tank top and cut-off shorts and Louis stands in the doorway, leant up against the jam, smiling over at him.
"You're insane," he mutters through his smile, and Harry beams back.
"You know what we need?" Harry asks. Louis arches an eyebrow. "A polaroid camera!"
"Shit," Louis says, hopping down the steps to get to Harry. "Can't believe I didn't think of that!"
Harry just shakes his head, wrapping an arm around Louis's shoulders as they walk across the gravel to the car. "It's not all on you, Lou, just relax and have some fun."
"Yeah," Louis says quietly. "Just want this to be perfect."
Harry stops and turns Louis to face him, pushing his wayfarers into his hair and sliding Louis's aviators down his nose to see his eyes. "It's gonna be perfect no matter what, I promise. Nothin' but the open road and my very best boy. What could be better?"
Louis squints over at him, trying to control his face, but finding he can't. He whacks Harry lightly in the stomach, saying, "Gonna give me premature wrinkles, mate. Can't fuckin' stop smiling."
Harry laughs and curls his arm around Louis's waist, pulling him into his body. He smells like wind and dust and Harry. Louis rests his forehead on Harry's shoulder and pinches at his side. "Gonna get looks," he mutters.
Harry shakes his head, but lets him go. "From what, the roadkill?" he says, glancing around.
"Let's get to St. Louis," Louis says. "It was named after me, you know. Only bastardised pronunciation. Arseholes."
*
They end up driving through St. Louis, only stopping at Ted Drewes' for frozen custard and a CVS off Tucker Boulevard for a polaroid camera and a stockpile of film. Harry ends up getting two custards, only so he can push one in Louis's face, smearing it up his nose.
"I hate you!" Louis shrieks, trying to blow out the mess into a napkin, only managing to spread it across his face.
Harry explodes into cackles, flopping across the bench they're on. "I'm a master."
"You're a twat," Louis says, getting up to grab more napkins from the counter. The spotty teenager working the window gives him an unimpressed look and Louis just bats his eyelashes coyly.
When he gets back to Harry, he's still laughing around the rest of his cone. "A familiar look for you, I expect. White stuff across your face."
Louis kicks him in the shin, hard. "You're awful."
Harry just grins up at him.
The sun's setting and everything is orange and gold, shining across Harry's face and Louis can see his own stupid fond expression reflecting in his sunglasses. He's quiet for a moment. "I'm glad we did this, H," he says.
Harry's face goes sombre. "I'm gonna miss you so much, Lou," he says softly, and that-
That's the first time either of them have acknowledged it out loud. Acknowledged this whole thing is a farewell trip; acknowledged that for the first time since they were eight, they're not going to be a quick drive or walk from each other; acknowledged that this is a real thing that is going to affect them.
Louis swallows, purses his lips, and nods shortly. He looks away for a moment, balling his fists and then forcing himself to relax. "Hey," he says, gentle, nudging at Harry's ankle with his foot, "let's find a motel, yeah? I'm knackered."
Harry gives a small smile and stands up, stretching. "Want me to drive?"
Louis shakes his head. "Tomorrow, maybe," he says. "I can make it for now."
They find a run-down old inn called Thunderbird Inn about twenty miles outside of St. Louis, and Louis pulls into the gravel car park with relief.
They get dirty looks from the old man chewing on a cigar behind the counter when they ask for a single, but Louis just bites his lip and signs the receipt, taking the key and shoving Harry out the door, ignoring the murmur of faggot coming from the desk.
"What a dick," Harry mutters, and Louis just rolls his eyes.
"You're so cute and naïve." He grabs their bags from the boot and tosses Harry one. "I call first shower."
Harry nods, brow still furrowed, lower lip pulled between his teeth. He keeps glancing back at the door to the office, as if he wants some sort of fisticuffs at sundown scene. Louis sighs, pulling Harry into the room. "Can't start a fight with every bigot, mate, trust me."
Harry shrugs. "People can't talk to you like that," he says.
Louis ruffles Harry's hair as he walks toward the bathroom. "Pretty sure he was talking to both of us, darlin'," he says lightly. "See if anything's on the telly, I'll be out in a minute."
When Louis exits the bathroom in a cloud of steam, feeling infinitely more human, Harry's spread across the bed in just his pants, a baseball game on the television. "I'm trying to get it," he explains when he sees Louis's eyebrow raised.
"Get it?" Louis repeats, digging around in his bag for pants and joggers. "What's there to get? Fat men swinging sticks at balls." He pauses. "Sounds like weird fetish porn, actually."
Harry smirks, but gestures at the screen with the remote. "Nah, I mean like. It's a huge thing here, isn't it? So there has to be something to it. Strategy and whatnot."
Louis shrugs. "People also like cricket, mate, there's no accounting."
"Yeah," Harry says absently. The game is between St. Louis and Atlanta, and Atlanta is up 6-2. "See, in football, that'd be game over. But here it's only the second inning? And there are nine innings? People actually sit through three hours of this, Lou."
Louis rolls his eyes. "It's all very philosophical, I'm sure. Maybe after six beers, it's thrilling, I don't know. Go shower. You'll feel better."
Harry nods, tearing his eyes away and swats Louis on the arse as he passes. "Tell me if anything exciting happens."
"What, like a bomb dropping on the stadium?" Louis winks and curls on the bed, stretching out his back.
When Harry's out of the shower he drops onto the bed, brushing close to Louis, shoulders aligned. Louis glances down the bed, frowning when his feet barely come to Harry's ankles. He points his toes and scoots down a little, trying to seem casual. Harry looks over at him and follows his eyeline, breaking into a huge, triumphant grin.
"Tiny Lou, tiny Lou!" he cries, poking Louis in the stomach. Louis pouts, squirming away.
"S'not fair," Louis whines. "I'm older and infinitely better looking!"
Harry tilts his head, pretending to consider this. "I'm pretty sure that makes this very fair. You're like my little trophy wife. I can throw you around and you fit nicely on my arm."
"You can not throw me around," Louis says, elbowing him sharply in the ribs. Harry just laughs, turning on his side and throwing an arm around Louis's waist, petting his stomach a little.
"You keep telling yourself that, baby," he says, laughing.
Louis makes a face and hopes the glow from the television isn't enough to illuminate how his cheeks heat up.
*
The next morning comes too quickly. Louis's alarm goes off at 9:30, and he blinks awake in much the same position as the morning before: Harry's front pressed all along his back, fitting to his curves, arse to groin, with Harry's big hand wrapped around Louis's front, open palm against his stomach, and his other arm under the pillow Louis has his head on.
Clenching his jaw and closing his eyes against the rush of want that clouds his vision, Louis bites his lip and gently climbs out of the bed, careful not to jostle Harry. He pads into the bathroom, glaring at his reflection in the mirror, and stands over the toilet, willing his erection to calm down enough for him to pee.
He rests a hand on the wall above the toilet, leaning into it, other hand curled around himself, hating himself slightly as he starts to stroke lightly. He turns his head to bite at his bicep, digging his teeth in. He has to make it hurt, he reasons. Can't enjoy this.
It's not like it's the first time Louis has wanked to Harry, because Harry's always been there, just out of reach but so goddamn pretty in his whole unattainable glory, but it's never been, like, okay with him. It's never been something he's accepted or allowed to happen very often. It usually comes in flashes of Harry's face, of his arms, stomach, hipbones. He doesn't allow himself to think of Harry kissing him or touching him or inside him. He just doesn't.
Except now, now with Harry handprints still warm on his stomach and the memory of Harry's hair still tickling his neck fill his mind and he imagines Harry on top of him, holding him against the mattress with his broad body, arms straining as his hips buck into Louis, filling him up, with his green eyes staring down into Louis's, face flushed with the effort.
Louis lets out a whimper against his skin, sparks behind his eyelids and he finishes quickly, squeezing tight, pace punishing as he comes into the toilet. There's going to be a bruise on his arm, teethprints deep and fiery red already. He closes his eyes and pees quickly. He washes his hands and avoids his reflection.
Harry's awake when Louis gets back to the bed and he smirks up at Louis from where he's laying on his back. "Sweet dreams then, eh?" he says and Louis burns bright red. He points at Harry sternly.
"Don't say a word."
Harry just laughs and rolls out of bed, picking up his cutoffs and sliding them on. "It's cool, me too." He arches an eyebrow in Louis's direction and Louis glances past him to the nightstand, where there's a balled up tissue next to the lamp.
"Gross," Louis says.
"Hey!" Harry reaches over and tosses it at him. "Glass houses, mate."
Louis dodges it and slides on his own shorts, grabbing a clean t-shirt from his bag. "I at least was hygienic about it, you animal." He focuses intently on sliding on the shirt and grabs his hair gel, walking back to the bathroom. He focuses intently on styling his hair. He focuses intently on their plan for today. He focuses intently on anything that's not the image of Harry Styles jacking off on the bed where Louis just slept all night in Harry's arms.
It's just gone ten when they make it out to the car. Harry slides behind the wheel, and Louis rolls down the windows and opens the sunroof, propping his feet up on the dash. The polaroid camera is sitting between them in the gear-shift console. He grabs it, focusing on Harry, his hair tied back with a bright pink ribbon, sunglasses making his face look older, tougher. Louis smirks. It's a stark juxtaposition, but so is everything about Harry. The prison tattoos with his cuddly personality; the long, lean frame with the soft curls; the strong jaw and full lips.
Harry is just the best thing Louis has ever seen and he doesn't know what to do about it.
So he takes a picture as Harry merges onto the highway. The sun's coming from behind them, casting long shadows across their bodies. It's already burning hot, sure to be miserable, but Harry's face is calm, concentrated on the backwards setup of the car, the road. His lower lip is pulled into his mouth and his arms are bare, huge hands curled around the wheel. Louis turns himself so he's leaning against the passenger door and tilts his body to face Harry, holding the camera up to his eye.
He slides the developing photo into the glove box, and says, "You look like James Dean."
Harry's mouth curves up. "You flatterer."
Louis hums in agreement. "Well, I mean, if James Dean were a girl, probably."
Laughing, Harry just shakes his head. "Music, Lou. And none of your top 40, bubblegum pop, ridiculous dance music shit."
"So demanding," Louis mutters, but scrolls through, settling on Ryan Adams. He turns the volume up and settles back into the seat, holding tightly to his map. The wind is whipping through the open windows, throwing his hair everywhere, and he squints down. "We should have stopped in Eureka, Missouri," he says to Harry. "Meramec River. Maybe we could have skinnydipped."
Harry looks over at him. "Are we past it? Where is it?"
"It's in St. Louis County. The bridge we went over last night, looking for the motel. We could go back?" Louis already knows what the answer will be even before Harry flicks the turn signal to exit. He smiles to himself.
*
The river is icy-cold and definitely not meant for skinnydipping. It's moving quickly, current strong.
"Is this the mighty Mississippi?" Harry asks excitedly.
Louis looks at him and then looks at the sign that proudly states MERAMEC RIVER. "I think, Harry," he says, "this might be the Meramec river."
Harry's only in ankle-deep, at the very edge, but he looks as if he's about to dive in. Louis watches the fast stream of water rushing past and takes a stick. "Watch, Haz," he says, as he tosses the stick as far as he can into the water. Within seconds, it's out of view, shooting down the river.
Harry stares after it. "You're like me mum."
Louis snorts. "Just don't want you getting any ideas. Your mum would have me slaughtered if you died on this little adventure."
"Legendary," Harry says back, smiling into the sun.
"Yeah," Louis says. "Legendary." He gingerly tiptoes across the rocks to stand next to Harry, cursing quietly.
Harry grabs his hand and takes a step deeper. "Shit shit shit," he mutters. "Bloody cold, innit?"
Louis opens his mouth to agree, but there's a loud shout behind them. They whip around, staring at a massively round park ranger on the embankment.
"You can't be down there," he's yelling. "This is not a designated tourist area! You trying to get killed?"
Louis chances a glance at Harry and as soon as their eyes meet they burst into giggles, dashing out of the water and grabbing their shoes, climbing up the steep bank to their car. The ranger watches them go, a distinct call of fucking tourists chasing them.
Harry's still laughing when he dives behind the wheel, slamming the door and jamming the key in the ignition, barely waiting for Louis to be fully in the car before pealing out of the shoulder of the road.
"Oh my god," Louis says, gasping for breath. "I think that was Peppa Pig's creepy uncle."
"Jesus fuck," Harry exclaims, bursting into another round of giggles. "What an image."
Louis glances down and smiles, pleased. He grabs the camera again, taking another photo. The sun is much more overhead now, giving Harry a yellow glow, and his face is open with laughter, limbs relaxed.
"How're we gonna split these pictures up?" Harry asks after a few minutes of silence. They're whipping past open fields now. Louis is counting the different variations of farm animals, but he has to give up because apparently the only goddamn animal in this country is cow.
"What do you mean?" Louis responds absently, sunwarm and calm.
"Like, when the trip's over? We're only gonna have one copy of each photo." Harry's hands are tight on the steering wheel again and Louis tenses too. Another reminder.
"Oh," Louis says. He pauses. "I get the ones of you. You can have the ones of me. We can scan them all, too, so at least we'll be able to keep them all somewhere. But I want the ones of you."
Harry bites at his lip. "Yeah," he says quietly. "That sounds good. I want the ones of you."
They're silent again, but it's not relaxed.
Then, "For my wank bank, obviously."
Louis throws his head back and laughs, punching Harry in the shoulder. "Don't get my hopes up, love."
Harry's laughing now, too. "Aw, baby, you know I'm always good for it."
Louis keeps chuckling, but a vise is around his chest, squeezing. "Good for a wank? Yeah, mate, I've noticed."
Harry just waggles his eyebrows and they steady on the ribbon of highway. Louis rests his arm out the window, catching at the air with his fingers, staving off the sadness as best as he's ever been able to.
It seems like Harry's trying, too, but it's always been harder for him.
His right hand sneaks over and grabs Louis's left as the song changes and Louis just holds on.
*
The third night is spent in Joplin, Missouri, and Harry sings Me and Bobby McGee until Louis hits him with the folded map.
"Was feelin' as faded as my jeaaaans," Harry croons on the fourth morning from the passenger seat. He grabs the camera and Louis tries to bite back a smile but fails miserably as Harry snaps a picture.
"You look a proper Marc Jacobs model, Lou," Harry comments. "Those cheekbones, the jawline, the aviators. The fringe. Proper high fashion."
Louis just rolls his eyes, rasping out, "Feelin' good was good enough for me," and Harry joins in, singing, "Good enough for me and my Bobby McGee."
They fade into silence, letting Janis' greatest hits album narrate the drive. The heat is already coming off the road in waves, rippling the air, and Louis wonders when he'll get used to this.
Harry hums along a little, staring out the window and tapping his fingers to the beat. "Hey," he says suddenly, "we should go to a real biker bar tonight."
Louis laughs. "Sweetcheeks, you're still a baby in this country, remember?"
Harry rolls his eyes. "If they card, which they won't - christ, it's like you've never even seen any movies - we'll scarper. But we should try."
And Louis is powerless, here in this moment, this strange country with this beautiful boy, powerless to not give him everything he wants. He changes the music to Bob Dylan and smiles at the blue sky. "Alright, H. But when we get our arses kicked, I'm going to remind you whose idea this was."
Harry laughs, delighted. "I have tattoos. I'll protect you, princess."
Louis shakes his head, flips him off half-heartedly.
Around eight in the evening, after numerous stops at the most ridiculous of roadside attractions - Louis honestly did not know souvenir shops had such a wide array of bolo ties - Harry whacks Louis sharply in the arm, pointing into the distance at a turnoff into a low building with a huge façade out front and motorcycles lining the car park. Louis smirks.
"Let's find a motel first, yeah?" he says.
Harry shakes his head. "Right there, mate," he says, pointing again next to the building, where a blinking, half-burnt out neon sign advertises The Red Door Inn.
Flipping on the blinker, Louis eases off into the car park, tyres grinding into the gravel. "Convenient."
They get a room and Louis makes Harry stay in the car. He's shocked when Harry agrees readily, but figures neither of them need slurs thrown their way at an inn next to a biker bar outside Tulsa, Oklahoma.
They drop their bags in the room, and Louis marvels at how they all seem to look the same; every room along this highway.
"What're you gonna wear, Lou?" Harry calls over to him as Louis stands over the sink, washing his face.
Louis shrugs. "I dunno. White v-neck and cutoffs. I really doubt I can pull off 'tough.'"
Harry snorts. "Yeah. I'm gonna go with a tank and black cutoffs, I think." He laughs a little. "I'm kind of nervous. Is that stupid?"
Louis walks out of the bathroom and gives Harry a once-over, nodding slightly in approval. "Nah, I mean, shit, H, at least you're going into this with a definite interest in pussy. I'm the twinky British boy going into a dustbowl biker bar."
Harry glances away, biting his lip. "Is this stupid? I don't want you to do anything you don't feel comfortable with."
"I'm good," Louis says, shrugging. "Don't, like, pull tonight, though, yeah? I don't fancy being left alone." He says it lightly, but his hands are sweating. He shoves them in his pockets.
Harry catches his eye and his expression is serious. "Lou, come on, I'm not here to shag birds."
Louis nods.
"I mean," Harry continues, glancing away briefly before looking back at Louis. "All of it, you know? I'm not here with you, on this trip, to get girls. So don't worry about that."
The mood is heavy, suddenly, and the sun is disappearing over the horizon, glowing orange. Louis swallows. He doesn't want to take this any more seriously than Harry means it. He says, casual, "Sure." He shrugs. "But don't hold back because of me if you, like, are feeling it or whatever, you know? I don't mind at all. I can sleep in the car or whatever if you want the room."
Harry just shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "You're so stupid," he says, and it's all fond.
"Rude," Louis replies, grabbing the room key and his wallet, making sure anything of any value is hidden from view. "Shall we?"
*
The bar is dark, but illuminated all through with neon beer signs and bright lights around the pool tables. There's a poker game advertised in the downstairs, and every single person sitting around the bar looks to be over fifty, with actual prison tattoos, not just the Harry Styles brand of overly sentimental doodlings. Harry's eyes are wide and Louis feels his face glaze over into blankness as all eyes rest on them.
Harry guides them over to the bar with a hand on the small of Louis back and Louis goes stiff, tense, because Harry is so fucking naïve. He steps away slightly, and Harry glances over at him, wounded. Louis glares at him sharply. "Are you kidding me?" he whispers.
Harry looks around quickly and all eyes are still on them, the two young boys with soft, pretty features. Louis swallows, licking his lips.
The bartender swaggers over to them, a mean smirk on his lips. "Can I get you boys anything?" he asks.
Louis clears his throat. Harry likes stupid fruity cocktails and, god, this is so not where they should be right now. Harry's too young for this, too innocent for this. He has no idea what people like this think of boys like them - like Louis in particular - and he's never wanted Harry to have to find out.
"Yeah, two pints of Bud, please," he says, carefully.
The bartender's face changes, immediately becoming more amused, more animalistic. A hawk spotting an injured squirrel. "Sure thing," he drawls. "Where you boys from and what the fuck are you doing around here?"
Harry's silent beside Louis, staring at the signage decorating the walls, advertising beer and guns and hunting and how many kills per season and - god - taxidermy and barely clothed women. His hands are folded in his lap and his knuckles are white.
Louis glances over at him, worried, before saying, "We're from northern England, actually. Doing a vacation before the brains of the outfit starts school in the fall."
The bartender scoffs a little, snorting and hocking a loogie onto the floor. Louis thinks every muscle in his body has been tightened like a too-sharp guitar.
"Two Buds," the bartender grunts, sliding them over. "That's $2.50 or tab."
"We'll hold off on the tab for now, thanks," Louis says, dropping three dollars on the bar. The bartender nods shortly and moves away. Louis very clearly hears the discussions swirling on either sides of them, terms he hasn't registered in years filtering into his brain.
He takes a long drink and elbows Harry. Harry glances at him, eyes wide and young and scared. His lower lip is pulled into his mouth, digging in till the skin is white.
"Drink," Louis hisses. "We don't have to stay, but, christ, Harry, you have to relax or we're gonna get eaten alive."
Harry shakes himself minutely and takes a long drink of beer, trying and failing to hide the face he always fucking pulls.
There's movement behind them. Louis very carefully stares at the shelf of liquor, feeling Harry seize up even further.
"You're awful pretty," comes a beer-soaked breath onto Louis's neck with a thick southern accent. "Awful pretty to be in a place like this, sweetheart."
Louis licks his lips and turns a little to the man. He's huge in every direction, the kind of huge where it's muscle and fat all twisted together to form a kind of solidity Louis will never have. He's scarred and bearded with grey, wiry hair and cold eyes.
"You here for business or pleasure?" the man rumbles, voice dropping lewdly on the last word, eyes raking over Louis's body.
Louis smiles as best he can, tense. "Just here on holiday, mate. Thought we'd stop for a drink, is all."
The man grunts and grins back, dirty, showing missing and half-rotted teeth. He brings his hand up and strokes one knotted finger down the line of Louis's spine. Louis stills immediately, frozen in fear and shock. Harry's motionless beside him for a moment, until he bursts into life, sliding off his stool, pressing a hand into the man's massive chest, and oh god.
Harry's big - he's big compared to Louis and he's big compared to their friends, but Louis is now acutely aware of how fucking scrawny Harry is and how tiny his hand looks on this bloke's chest and oh, god.
The man isn't even swayed by Harry and he just sucks his teeth, spitting on the floor at their feet. Louis is still frozen in his chair, watching with wide eyes as Harry faces up to this man.
"Don't talk to him that way," Harry says, and oh god fucking damn it, his voice is shaking. Louis is clutching his beer with a deathgrip.
"Oh?" The man is laughing now, and all eyes are still on them, predatory, amused, and circling. "He your boyfriend, kid?" and now the murmurings are clearer, words more defined, enunciated. Louis closes his eyes and slides off his stool to stand next to Harry, grasping his upper arm.
"Harry, leave it. We're leaving."
And Harry's still staring at the man, wide eyed and every emotion swirling across his face. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Louis needs to get them out of here.
"Looks like your little twink needs a good fucking," the man drawls. "You gonna see to him?"
The whispers are coming closer and Louis's chest is heaving, trying to catch his breath, the hot, smoky air of the bar melting into a cold sweat across his bare skin. "Harry," he says sharply, shaking him.
Harry jerks into it, glancing down at Louis and nodding shortly. He pulls out of Louis's grip on his arm and grabs at his hand instead, twining their fingers together and pulling Louis toward the door. Louis closes his eyes and says a prayer to a god he absolutely doesn't believe in, following Harry blindly.
Slurs and catcalls escort them out, but they make it to fresh air and Louis drops Harry's hand, stalking determinedly toward the hotel, not pausing to make sure Harry's following.
He is, though, and when the door slams behind both of them, Louis is shaking. He can't turn to look at Harry, doesn't know what to say to him. Doesn't know how to make him understand.
"Louis," Harry says, low and soft, gentle. As if Louis is some goddamn spooked horse.
Louis bites his lip and presses his palms into his eyes. He doesn't say anything.
"Lou," Harry tries again. "Are you okay?"
Louis takes a deep breath, willing himself to calm down, for his hands to stop fucking shaking.
He hears Harry come up behind him, feels his hand press carefully against his side, and he twitches away, walking two steps forward, and he whirls around, looking Harry in the eye.
"What the fuck," Louis starts, voice dangerous, sharp, "do you think you were doing in there?"
Harry takes a step back, flinching. He looks shocked. Louis wants to - god - he wants to hit him.
"What? I - Lou, people can't just-"
"No," Louis cuts him off. "No, Harry, people can and they will and you need to not put yourself in fucking danger like you're going to protect my fucking honour, you hear me? God, you don't know what people like that are like, alright? You don't know what they think of people like us - me. People like me. You cannot pick fights in a bar full of thirty men, each of them bigger than you and me combined. You cannot. You cannot put yourself in danger like that."
Harry's staring at him, mouth open, face white.
Louis drops his eyes, shoulders slumping. "I'm sorry. I'm - I'm sorry. I just. I never, ever wanted you to have to deal with something like this and I'm sorry this happened." He scrubs his hand through his hair. "I'm so fucking tired."
Harry's silent, back to gnawing on his lip.
Louis steps toward him, hand out. He grabs at the hem of Harry's teeshirt, pulling him in slightly until Harry's legs move and then the mood crashes down around them - Harry falls into Louis and Louis wraps his arms around him, swaying them lightly on the spot, whispering in his ear.
"It's alright, Haz, it's okay. We're okay," he murmurs. Harry's back is heaving and his breath is heavy through Louis's shirt. Louis closes his eyes and fists a hand into Harry's hair when he feels damp spots soaking through to his shoulder. "Hazza," he sighs.
Harry's hands are fitted tightly around Louis's waist, and Louis gently walks them to the bed, tipping Harry carefully down onto it, curling into him immediately. Harry gazes at him, dark, damp eyes and bitten-red lips. He's so young. Louis brushes his curls back from his forehead, fitting his hand on the curve of his neck.
"I'm sorry," Harry whispers. "I just - I couldn't handle it. Hearing that. About you." His breath still isn't coming evenly and his fingers are still digging into Louis's side, under his shirt, pressing into skin as if to make sure Louis won't disappear from him. Louis tucks himself closer, so their bodies are pressed together.
"I know, H," he whispers back. "It's not - like. I," he swallows, wondering how to phrase this. "I appreciate it, I guess," he continues, "not that I need you to take care of me, you dick," he says, a note of teasing in his voice. "I'm not some damsel in distress."
Harry coughs out a little laugh and Louis smiles weakly back, before saying, "But I appreciate your concern, I guess. Or whatever. Just. You're a good friend, H. Best I've got."
Nodding slightly, Harry lets out a shuddering breath into Louis's hair, pulling him in even tighter before ducking his head down so their noses are aligned. "Didn't mean to come over all, like, macho," he says, looking sheepish.
Louis rolls his eyes. "Trust me, love, you didn't."
Harry huffs out a laugh. "Fuck you," he says, and leans in more, brushing their lips together.
Louis's eyes snap open and his body locks back into frozen muscles. Harry pushes forward, opening his lips around Louis's, sucking lightly on his lower. Louis's hand is still on Harry's neck and his other wrapped around his back and Harry's hands are moving now, under his shirt around to his the small of his back, spreading across the entire thing and pulling him in, opening Louis's mouth with his tongue. He rolls them slightly, pressing Louis down into the bed and sliding his thigh between both of Louis's.
Louis's eyes slam shut and his body shocks into it. His fingers are curling against Harry's scalp and digging into the muscles in Harry's back and he's pushing up against the solid weight above him, gasping slightly into Harry's mouth, and Harry's pushing down with his hips and Louis shudders when he feels the hot press of Harry's cock against his own and he sucks in a sharp breath, pulling back.
"Harry," he says, and he hates how weak his voice is, how needy.
Harry looks down at him, eyes still dark, but not scared anymore. He combs his fingers through Louis's hair, pushing his fringe off his forehead. "Lou," he rasps.
Louis squeezes his eyes shut and unwraps his arms from around Harry. "No," he says. "We're not doing this."
He slides off the bed and takes a shaky breath, twisting his hands together nervously. His feels wild, spinning dangerously off his axis.
Harry gazes up at him, mouth turned down. "I..." he starts, then stops, blinking quickly. "Sorry, Lou, I just - sorry," he mumbles.
Louis wants to fucking cry or scream or, god, destroy something. "It's okay," he says, choked. "It's - it's okay, H, sorry. I just. We can't do that. We can't."
Hurt flashes across Harry's face, intense. It's fleeting, his expression settling into a blank mask that he's never quite been able to pull off. Louis wants to curl up and die.
"Yeah," Harry says quietly. "Okay. Sorry." He slides over to the far side of the bed, sitting up and swinging his legs over, burying his face in his hands briefly before tugging off his shorts and shirt and curling up under the covers, back to Louis.
Louis closes his eyes, mouthing fuck into the darkness, before undressing and sliding into the other side of the bed. They don't touch all night.
next
pairing: harry styles/louis tomlinson
word count: ~16,000
disclaimer: hilariously untrue.
summary: AU. they take route 66 with only each other and their secrets.
warnings: instances of homophobia, brief use of a slur.
notes: thank you so much to everyone who read over parts of this and reassured me it wasn't shit or a lost cause. i am tentatively proud of the way this turned out and i have so much hope that you all like it.
(quick logistical detail: the age to rent a car in the united states is 25. neither harry nor louis are 25 in this fic. please suspend disbelief regarding that, i apologise. and also, i have never driven route 66, so there's that.)
The problem, Louis thinks, is that he and Harry tell each other everything. It's become, like, a thing. It started when they were twelve and Louis was burning up inside with his secrets and Harry curled up next to him, petting his hair, all big eyes and turned down red mouth, begging Louis to tell him what was wrong.
So it's a thing, now. They have a night, every year, where they stay in and eat pizza and watch some sad movie probably targeted at a female demographic and tell secrets they can't keep inside anymore.
At twelve, Louis told Harry he liked boys. At fifteen, Harry told Louis he kissed Jessica even though she was dating Ethan. At seventeen, Louis told Harry he let Jackson fuck him. At eighteen, Harry told Louis he accidentally read his dad's email and found out his dad had been cheating on his mum. At twenty, Louis told Harry his family couldn't afford for him to go back to uni.
And now Louis is twenty one and Harry's sprawled out on the couch next to him and Blue Valentine is on the telly, volume down and unnoticed, because all Louis can see are Harry's shining eyes and all Louis can hear is Harry's secret ringing in his ears.
"Lou?" Harry asks, kicking his feet out at Louis's knee. "You hear me?"
Louis swallows tightly and smiles, as big as he can, immediately crawling over to drop heavily on top of Harry, rubbing his nose into his cheek. Harry's arms come up around him, digging into his sides, tickling. "I'm so proud of you," Louis whispers. "God, H, that's amazing."
Harry lets out a pleased little breath and Louis closes his eyes as he feels it ruffle through his hair.
"Harvard business school, mate," Louis repeats, letting it dig deeper into his chest, sinking into his body. "That's so..."
"Yeah," Harry says, shaking his head a little bit. Louis rests his forehead in the stretch of muscle between Harry's neck and shoulder, biting down softly. "I can't believe it," Harry breathes out.
Louis laughs lightly, sitting up on Harry's thighs. He looks down at him, still stretching a grin across his face. "I can," he says softly. "You're brilliant, H, you deserve this."
Harry rolls his eyes a little, blushing. He flicks Louis lightly on the thigh. "Anyway, your turn."
Louis bites his lip and slides off Harry's lap into the gap between his skinny legs and the back of the couch. He stares at the television. "Ryan Gosling is hot," he says.
He can feel Harry's eyes rolling. "Not a secret."
Louis laughs a little. He shrugs. "Haven't got one this year, I guess." He chances a glance at Harry.
Harry stares at him, eyes narrowed. "Bullshit. How are you and Aiden?"
Louis shrugs again, picking at the seam of his trousers. "I dunno. It's ending, I think."
"What?" Harry sits up, looking intently at Louis's profile. "I thought you guys were, like, solid."
"Yeah." Louis chuckles dryly. "No, I don't know. It's fine, but he's moving to London in a few months and we've kind of talked about it, you know. It's casual."
Harry's hand snakes out to grab Louis's, intwining their fingers. "I'm sorry, Lou."
Louis rolls his eyes and tugs a little on Harry's fingers. "Shut up, god, it's fine. We need to celebrate your news! I have some champagne, I think, hold on." He heaves himself off the couch and pads into the kitchen.
It's all autopilot now: he pulls open the fridge and grabs one of the bottles of champagne that lives in the door, setting it on the counter and reaching up for two pint glasses. As he starts unwrapping the foil around the mouth of the bottle, his hands start shaking and Harry's words sink in.
Harry's leaving. Not to London, not to some fancy job somewhere in the UK, not even to Europe. Harry's leaving to America and Louis is rotting in a dreary northern city with a boyfriend he doesn't particularly care about in the mornings, a laughable amount of education, and a pathetic job as a receptionist.
And it's not like Louis wasn't expecting this, in all honesty. Harry's always been so smart, so devoted, so encouraged. Harry's never been anything but shining; brilliant at everything, smart and loving and wonderful. Louis knew, somewhere inside him, that Harry would grow up and out and away, away from his deadbeat, directionless best friend. Louis would never, ever want to drag him down; keep him from that potential. It's just, knowing and preparing are two horribly different concepts, and Louis is not prepared.
Louis's secret is that he is in love with Harry. And for the first time since he was twelve, that's going to stay a secret.
*
A month later, when June warmth was finally reaching Manchester, Louis knocks on the door to Harry and Niall's flat, rolling his lips into his mouth.
Harry pulls the door open and Louis glances at him, breaking into a grin. "Love the hair, mate," he says, pushing past Harry and into the kitchen, digging into Niall's cupboard of food, surfacing with a bag of cheetos.
Harry smirks, hand coming up to adjust the ribbon tying his curls back. "Thanks, I'm thinking this is really gonna be the fashion in the fall, yeah?"
Louis nods, glancing around the flat, noticing the half-full boxes and general chaos. He swallows the handful of cheetos in his mouth and says nonchalantly, "Packing, then?"
Harry shrugs. "Yeah, lease is up on the 15th and Niall's got Zayn moving in, so, yeah, figured I'd stay with my mum till I leave."
Louis's lips quirk up as much as he can make them. He nods slightly. "So, um, hey," he starts.
Harry quirks an eyebrow at him and turns back to a box labeled BOOKS. "What's up, Lou? Haven't seen you much lately." His voice is a little curious, a little hurt, and a little cold.
Louis bites his lip again. "Yeah, sorry, been working a lot. I, um. Well, you might laugh at me a bit, but like. I..." he trails off, staring into the bag of crisps and kicking at the cupboard under the counter that never stays closed.
Harry turns back to him, eyebrows furrowed, and pads back into the kitchen, leaning against the fridge across from Louis. "What's up, Lou?" he says again.
Letting out a slightly breathy laugh, shaking his head a bit. He scuffs the toe of his shitty, beat-up vans against the shitty, beat-up linoleum. "This is dumb, but like. I've kind of... been thinking? That maybe we could do something? Before you go off to your big American life. You know?" He looks back up at Harry, fingers twisting together.
Harry's eyebrows raise and his mouth parts slightly. "Yeah, of course! Of course, Lou, god. Why's that dumb, you idiot?"
Louis shakes his head, scrunching his nose at Harry and smiling, closed-mouth and small. "Yeah, I mean. It's just I've been planning a bit? And like. Saving some money, I guess. And I was thinking, like. Have you seen that episode of An Idiot Abroad? Where Pilkington does Route 66?"
"Uh, yeah, I think so..." Harry says slowly, not looking any less confused.
Louis nods, dropping his eyes again. "I was kind of thinking maybe we could do that?"
Harry blinks. Once, then twice. Louis scrunches his face up again. After a moment, Harry speaks, "You wanna do Route 66 with me?"
Louis's fingers are losing blood from twisting together. "A last hurrah kind of thing, you know? It'd be cool. And get you all Americanised." He laughs a little. "We could leave, like, soon, maybe? Fly into Chicago and rent a car and, y'know, take off."
Harry's staring at him blankly. "But... your job? And, like, that's expensive, Lou, how're we gonna..."
"Oh," Louis says quickly. "I've been saving up and I've looked into flights and they're not too bad if we don't fly in on a weekend and if we get a small car and stay in cheap motels and eat shitty food we should be okay, I think?"
Harry's starting to nod, a slow smile stretching across his lips. "I've got some money saved up too, like. I was gonna use it to fly back here for Christmas, but I'm sure my stepdad can fly me out if they end up missing me, right?"
Louis feels himself relax, feels his fingers slow their twisting, feels his shoulders slump back down from around his ears, feels his forehead smooth out. He beams back at Harry. "It'll be the best summer ever, mate. Legendary."
Harry grins back, giddy suddenly, and grabs Louis's hand, tugging him into his body. He wraps his arms around Louis, burying his face into Louis's neck. "Love you."
Louis runs his hand down the curve of Harry's back, smiling tightly at the wall behind him. "Love you too, H."
*
Chicago is hot as fuck in mid-June, it turns out. Louis was not expecting this. All he knows of Chicago is gangster movies and, like, snow. Or something. He's sweating through his thin teeshirt and his stupid khaki trousers and Harry's next to him, looking haggard and tired.
Harry pulls his shirt up to wipe the sweat from his face and Louis very carefully and very deliberately saunters over to the terminal map, trying to figure out where the fuck car rental is. Harry comes up behind him, resting his elbow on Louis's shoulder.
Louis pulls a face, but says, "So, baggage claim is that way-" he points, "-and the rental agency is in the next terminal, I guess? So we'll have to take a train thing. Sound good?"
Harry's head is resting on the arm he has on Louis's shoulder, but he nods, hair brushing Louis's neck. "Sounds good, Lou," he mumbles.
They end up with an older model of a Toyota Corolla. Louis nudges Harry over to the car as he signs all the paperwork, watching out of the corner of his eye as Harry drops his bags into the boot and then slumps in the passenger seat.
Louis nods his thanks at the attendant, grasping the keys in his sweaty hand and making his way over to the car. As he slides in, Harry cracks a bleary eye in his direction. "You good to drive on the wrong side of the road, mate?"
Louis gives him a tired half-smile. "Think so. Hopefully we won't have to make too many turns, yeah?" Harry quirks his lips up slightly.
"We'll kip before we do anything, superstar," Louis says quietly. Harry nods, eyes closing. Louis stares at him for a moment, the late afternoon Chicago sun beating hotly down on the car and making Harry's pale skin bright, as if lit up from the inside. There's sweat pooled in the hollow of his throat, and his cheeks are slightly red, sunburnt already. There are lines on his forehead and around his eyes, as he squints against the brightness, too tired to find his sunglasses. Louis licks his lips and takes a deep breath, shaking himself slightly. There's a six hour time difference; he's knackered. They need a cheap motel and hamburgers, like, three hours ago. He sighs and shifts the car into gear, backing out of the car park.
Louis finds an old, seedy motel within a half an hour. It advertises cable and a forty-five dollar single room. Pulling up next to the office, he nudges Harry awake with his elbow before gently brushing Harry's hair off his face.
Louis hates himself a little when Harry's eyes open, bleary and tired, and Louis can't control the soft smile he knows should be giving him away.
Harry doesn't notice, just smiles back. "Here?" he asks, raspy.
Louis nods. "Gonna go grab a room, yeah? Wanna come or stay here?"
Arching his back off the seat, stretching his long arms, and letting out a groan, Harry smacks his lips together, finally saying, "I'll come with." He unfolds himself out of the car and throws his arm around Louis's shoulder, leaning heavily into him. Louis wraps his own arm around Harry's waist, taking the weight.
A woman who has smoked herself into middle age raises one heavily penciled-in eyebrow at them as they approach the desk. "Can I help you?" she drawls.
"Er, yeah," Louis says and watches the woman's expression change as she catalogues his accent. "We'd like a room, please."
"Single or double?" she asks, glancing between Louis and Harry, eyes lingering where they're pressed together. Louis's chest feels tight and he licks his lips again, every point of contact between him and Harry alight with nerves.
"Single, please," he says, as casual as he can manage. He thinks he sounds breathless. He possibly hates himself a lot. Harry's half asleep on his shoulder, breath heavy and stale on his neck.
It's hot and it's humid and Louis has his favourite boy slumped into him and they're going to be sharing a bed and Louis has to close his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed.
The woman behind the counter just gives them another eyebrow raise and snaps her gum, sliding a paper for Louis to sign as he passes over his credit card. She drops a room key on the counter and gives Louis a long look and a cheeky wink as he grabs it.
Pressing the key into Harry's hand, he nods down the long stretch of doors as they exit the office. "Go find the room and hop in the shower, yeah? I'll bring the car around," he says and Harry nods, eyes heavy-lidded and smile sweet. Louis watches him walk down the corridor for a moment before sinking back behind the wheel.
When Louis stumbles into the room with their bags, he hears the shower running, Harry's clothes forming a path on the floor to the bathroom. Louis sinks down on the bed, laying back and sighing deeply. The air is damp, but luckily there's air conditioning, and the sweat on Louis's skin prickles, drying into a tacky sheen on his skin.
He feels proper disgusting.
"Hey," Harry's voice comes rasping from the doorway to the bath. He's smiling at Louis. Louis blinks a few times.
"Must've drifted off," Louis says, pulling a face at Harry. He takes a deep breath and hoists himself to his feet, toeing off his shoes and pulling his shirt over his head. "Shower," he mumbles.
Harry nods, patting Louis's side as he walks past him into the bathroom.
When Louis finally scrubs the interminable flight and sticky American summer off his skin, he pads back into the main room, digging out a pair of clean pants. Harry's spread across three quarters of the tiny bed, breathing deeply.
Louis bites his lip and eyes the tiny sliver of mattress left for him. He rolls his eyes to the sky and mouths why before climbing in, shoving Harry's warm body a little.
"Hmm?" Harry sounds, grumbling a little.
"Budge over," Louis whispers. "You've got not even half the arse I have, mate."
Harry smirks slightly, eyes still closed, and he scoots back to free roughly half the bed, and Louis tweaks a curl in thanks. He rolls over, putting his back to Harry and closes his eyes, taking slow and steady breaths until he feels himself relax.
And then, of course, that is kicked to hell because Harry moves suddenly, moves till he's pressed against Louis's back, curved around him, and sliding a hand around his waist, pulling him into Harry's body.
Louis's eyes fly open and his muscles tense immediately.
There's no sound in the room but Harry's even breathing, quiet, hot, and damp against Louis's neck.
*
The sun beats in through the dirty window at half eleven in the morning and Louis wakes up sweating, sticking to the sheets and to Harry, still curled around him. Groaning, he buries his face in the pillow for a moment, before taking a deep breath and rolling out of bed. He washes his face and brushes his teeth, staring at himself in the mirror. Jet-lag isn't a great look for him, he decides, as he lazily gels his hair into a halfhearted quiff.
"Oi," he calls, stumbling back into the bedroom. "Lazybones."
Harry doesn't stir. Louis rolls his eyes and grabs his calf, shaking. "H," he says. "Get up."
Harry mumbles a bit, cracking an eye, and then flopping over onto his stomach.
"Harry," Louis raises his voice. "We've got an itinerary, mate, get the fuck up."
"You're the devil," Harry groans into the mattress. "Feel like I've been hit by a truck."
"Come on, princess," Louis says. "We've got lands to conquer. Go west, young man, and all that."
Harry finally sits up, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Yeah, Lou, you're a real literary genius."
"Fuck off," Louis replies mildly. "Get dressed. We'll get some breakfast on the road. We'll check out Grant Park, I think, and then head on to Dwight and Odell, probably stop in Pontiac for lunch."
Harry looks at him. "You've really got this planned, haven't you?"
Louis smirks. "It's gonna be legendary."
"Alright," Harry says, rolling out of bed. "Let's do this. Middle America, here we come."
The temperature is already climbing once they check out of the motel, and the stale air in the tiny car is suffocating. They decide to get as far as they can with just the windows down, avoiding the use of the air conditioner, and Louis can't stop smiling over at Harry.
"California, here we comeeee," Harry yells, sticking his head out the window with a whoop, hair whipping across his face. He leans back into the car, grinning giddily at Louis. "Everything is so American," he exclaims. "Look at these signs, mate, I feel like we're in a Jack Kerouac novel."
Louis blinks innocently. "Who?"
Harry just laughs, throwing his feet up on the dash and reclining his chair. "Man, cornfields and all. We're gonna be proper outsiders, you know? We should stop at bars and see what American girls are into. They'll probably think we're cultured as hell."
Louis wrinkles his nose a bit, shaking his head with a small chuckle. "I'll leave that one to you, love. You'll just have to give me the PG-13 version later, yeah?"
Harry smiles over at him, and Louis can see his eyes crinkling behind his wayfarers. "Come on, mate. What's more American than a threesome? I'm sure you could get into that."
"Actually," Louis says, rolling his eyes as he stares at the road, "I'm pretty sure that's a French thing."
Harry sighs, defeated. "Fine. Well, then, you can pick up blokes and I'll pick up chicks and we'll get the whole spectrum of experience."
"Harry," Louis says dryly, "I am pretty sure we're in redneck country. I can live with a few weeks of celibacy, don't you worry about me."
Harry's quiet, thinking about this for a moment, until, "Okay, yeah, don't want your pretty face to get broken. When we get to California, though, mate, I expect you to go buckwild."
Louis rolls his eyes again and tosses Harry his iPod. "Choose something. Some road music, though, none of your weird faucet-dripping, alt-hardcore, undefined-genre shit."
Harry snorts, but obliges, scrolling through, muttering, "Well, people will think I'm cultured at least," as he settles on Bruce Springsteen.
Louis glances at Harry, grinning hugely, and Harry reaches over to grab Louis's right hand off the wheel, holding it tight.
"Cos tramps like us, baby, we were born to run!" Louis yells over at him and Harry laces their fingers together.
*
Louis stops at every roadside attraction that catches Harry's attention, and by the fifth, Harry proclaims, "I'm going to start a bolo tie collection."
"Harry," Louis groans. "This is not the eighties and I still have to be seen with you."
Harry beams at him and picks up a rainbow one from the display at some kitchy cowboy -themed market sprawled along the highway in rural Illinois. He holds it up to Louis's throat. "Suits you, I think."
Louis bats him away. "Save your money, babe."
Harry just laughs and scampers out the door onto the rickety boardwalk, staring up at the old-time wooden façade. "This is amazing," he says, and the sun is catching his curls and his skin in his white tank top and cut-off shorts and Louis stands in the doorway, leant up against the jam, smiling over at him.
"You're insane," he mutters through his smile, and Harry beams back.
"You know what we need?" Harry asks. Louis arches an eyebrow. "A polaroid camera!"
"Shit," Louis says, hopping down the steps to get to Harry. "Can't believe I didn't think of that!"
Harry just shakes his head, wrapping an arm around Louis's shoulders as they walk across the gravel to the car. "It's not all on you, Lou, just relax and have some fun."
"Yeah," Louis says quietly. "Just want this to be perfect."
Harry stops and turns Louis to face him, pushing his wayfarers into his hair and sliding Louis's aviators down his nose to see his eyes. "It's gonna be perfect no matter what, I promise. Nothin' but the open road and my very best boy. What could be better?"
Louis squints over at him, trying to control his face, but finding he can't. He whacks Harry lightly in the stomach, saying, "Gonna give me premature wrinkles, mate. Can't fuckin' stop smiling."
Harry laughs and curls his arm around Louis's waist, pulling him into his body. He smells like wind and dust and Harry. Louis rests his forehead on Harry's shoulder and pinches at his side. "Gonna get looks," he mutters.
Harry shakes his head, but lets him go. "From what, the roadkill?" he says, glancing around.
"Let's get to St. Louis," Louis says. "It was named after me, you know. Only bastardised pronunciation. Arseholes."
*
They end up driving through St. Louis, only stopping at Ted Drewes' for frozen custard and a CVS off Tucker Boulevard for a polaroid camera and a stockpile of film. Harry ends up getting two custards, only so he can push one in Louis's face, smearing it up his nose.
"I hate you!" Louis shrieks, trying to blow out the mess into a napkin, only managing to spread it across his face.
Harry explodes into cackles, flopping across the bench they're on. "I'm a master."
"You're a twat," Louis says, getting up to grab more napkins from the counter. The spotty teenager working the window gives him an unimpressed look and Louis just bats his eyelashes coyly.
When he gets back to Harry, he's still laughing around the rest of his cone. "A familiar look for you, I expect. White stuff across your face."
Louis kicks him in the shin, hard. "You're awful."
Harry just grins up at him.
The sun's setting and everything is orange and gold, shining across Harry's face and Louis can see his own stupid fond expression reflecting in his sunglasses. He's quiet for a moment. "I'm glad we did this, H," he says.
Harry's face goes sombre. "I'm gonna miss you so much, Lou," he says softly, and that-
That's the first time either of them have acknowledged it out loud. Acknowledged this whole thing is a farewell trip; acknowledged that for the first time since they were eight, they're not going to be a quick drive or walk from each other; acknowledged that this is a real thing that is going to affect them.
Louis swallows, purses his lips, and nods shortly. He looks away for a moment, balling his fists and then forcing himself to relax. "Hey," he says, gentle, nudging at Harry's ankle with his foot, "let's find a motel, yeah? I'm knackered."
Harry gives a small smile and stands up, stretching. "Want me to drive?"
Louis shakes his head. "Tomorrow, maybe," he says. "I can make it for now."
They find a run-down old inn called Thunderbird Inn about twenty miles outside of St. Louis, and Louis pulls into the gravel car park with relief.
They get dirty looks from the old man chewing on a cigar behind the counter when they ask for a single, but Louis just bites his lip and signs the receipt, taking the key and shoving Harry out the door, ignoring the murmur of faggot coming from the desk.
"What a dick," Harry mutters, and Louis just rolls his eyes.
"You're so cute and naïve." He grabs their bags from the boot and tosses Harry one. "I call first shower."
Harry nods, brow still furrowed, lower lip pulled between his teeth. He keeps glancing back at the door to the office, as if he wants some sort of fisticuffs at sundown scene. Louis sighs, pulling Harry into the room. "Can't start a fight with every bigot, mate, trust me."
Harry shrugs. "People can't talk to you like that," he says.
Louis ruffles Harry's hair as he walks toward the bathroom. "Pretty sure he was talking to both of us, darlin'," he says lightly. "See if anything's on the telly, I'll be out in a minute."
When Louis exits the bathroom in a cloud of steam, feeling infinitely more human, Harry's spread across the bed in just his pants, a baseball game on the television. "I'm trying to get it," he explains when he sees Louis's eyebrow raised.
"Get it?" Louis repeats, digging around in his bag for pants and joggers. "What's there to get? Fat men swinging sticks at balls." He pauses. "Sounds like weird fetish porn, actually."
Harry smirks, but gestures at the screen with the remote. "Nah, I mean like. It's a huge thing here, isn't it? So there has to be something to it. Strategy and whatnot."
Louis shrugs. "People also like cricket, mate, there's no accounting."
"Yeah," Harry says absently. The game is between St. Louis and Atlanta, and Atlanta is up 6-2. "See, in football, that'd be game over. But here it's only the second inning? And there are nine innings? People actually sit through three hours of this, Lou."
Louis rolls his eyes. "It's all very philosophical, I'm sure. Maybe after six beers, it's thrilling, I don't know. Go shower. You'll feel better."
Harry nods, tearing his eyes away and swats Louis on the arse as he passes. "Tell me if anything exciting happens."
"What, like a bomb dropping on the stadium?" Louis winks and curls on the bed, stretching out his back.
When Harry's out of the shower he drops onto the bed, brushing close to Louis, shoulders aligned. Louis glances down the bed, frowning when his feet barely come to Harry's ankles. He points his toes and scoots down a little, trying to seem casual. Harry looks over at him and follows his eyeline, breaking into a huge, triumphant grin.
"Tiny Lou, tiny Lou!" he cries, poking Louis in the stomach. Louis pouts, squirming away.
"S'not fair," Louis whines. "I'm older and infinitely better looking!"
Harry tilts his head, pretending to consider this. "I'm pretty sure that makes this very fair. You're like my little trophy wife. I can throw you around and you fit nicely on my arm."
"You can not throw me around," Louis says, elbowing him sharply in the ribs. Harry just laughs, turning on his side and throwing an arm around Louis's waist, petting his stomach a little.
"You keep telling yourself that, baby," he says, laughing.
Louis makes a face and hopes the glow from the television isn't enough to illuminate how his cheeks heat up.
*
The next morning comes too quickly. Louis's alarm goes off at 9:30, and he blinks awake in much the same position as the morning before: Harry's front pressed all along his back, fitting to his curves, arse to groin, with Harry's big hand wrapped around Louis's front, open palm against his stomach, and his other arm under the pillow Louis has his head on.
Clenching his jaw and closing his eyes against the rush of want that clouds his vision, Louis bites his lip and gently climbs out of the bed, careful not to jostle Harry. He pads into the bathroom, glaring at his reflection in the mirror, and stands over the toilet, willing his erection to calm down enough for him to pee.
He rests a hand on the wall above the toilet, leaning into it, other hand curled around himself, hating himself slightly as he starts to stroke lightly. He turns his head to bite at his bicep, digging his teeth in. He has to make it hurt, he reasons. Can't enjoy this.
It's not like it's the first time Louis has wanked to Harry, because Harry's always been there, just out of reach but so goddamn pretty in his whole unattainable glory, but it's never been, like, okay with him. It's never been something he's accepted or allowed to happen very often. It usually comes in flashes of Harry's face, of his arms, stomach, hipbones. He doesn't allow himself to think of Harry kissing him or touching him or inside him. He just doesn't.
Except now, now with Harry handprints still warm on his stomach and the memory of Harry's hair still tickling his neck fill his mind and he imagines Harry on top of him, holding him against the mattress with his broad body, arms straining as his hips buck into Louis, filling him up, with his green eyes staring down into Louis's, face flushed with the effort.
Louis lets out a whimper against his skin, sparks behind his eyelids and he finishes quickly, squeezing tight, pace punishing as he comes into the toilet. There's going to be a bruise on his arm, teethprints deep and fiery red already. He closes his eyes and pees quickly. He washes his hands and avoids his reflection.
Harry's awake when Louis gets back to the bed and he smirks up at Louis from where he's laying on his back. "Sweet dreams then, eh?" he says and Louis burns bright red. He points at Harry sternly.
"Don't say a word."
Harry just laughs and rolls out of bed, picking up his cutoffs and sliding them on. "It's cool, me too." He arches an eyebrow in Louis's direction and Louis glances past him to the nightstand, where there's a balled up tissue next to the lamp.
"Gross," Louis says.
"Hey!" Harry reaches over and tosses it at him. "Glass houses, mate."
Louis dodges it and slides on his own shorts, grabbing a clean t-shirt from his bag. "I at least was hygienic about it, you animal." He focuses intently on sliding on the shirt and grabs his hair gel, walking back to the bathroom. He focuses intently on styling his hair. He focuses intently on their plan for today. He focuses intently on anything that's not the image of Harry Styles jacking off on the bed where Louis just slept all night in Harry's arms.
It's just gone ten when they make it out to the car. Harry slides behind the wheel, and Louis rolls down the windows and opens the sunroof, propping his feet up on the dash. The polaroid camera is sitting between them in the gear-shift console. He grabs it, focusing on Harry, his hair tied back with a bright pink ribbon, sunglasses making his face look older, tougher. Louis smirks. It's a stark juxtaposition, but so is everything about Harry. The prison tattoos with his cuddly personality; the long, lean frame with the soft curls; the strong jaw and full lips.
Harry is just the best thing Louis has ever seen and he doesn't know what to do about it.
So he takes a picture as Harry merges onto the highway. The sun's coming from behind them, casting long shadows across their bodies. It's already burning hot, sure to be miserable, but Harry's face is calm, concentrated on the backwards setup of the car, the road. His lower lip is pulled into his mouth and his arms are bare, huge hands curled around the wheel. Louis turns himself so he's leaning against the passenger door and tilts his body to face Harry, holding the camera up to his eye.
He slides the developing photo into the glove box, and says, "You look like James Dean."
Harry's mouth curves up. "You flatterer."
Louis hums in agreement. "Well, I mean, if James Dean were a girl, probably."
Laughing, Harry just shakes his head. "Music, Lou. And none of your top 40, bubblegum pop, ridiculous dance music shit."
"So demanding," Louis mutters, but scrolls through, settling on Ryan Adams. He turns the volume up and settles back into the seat, holding tightly to his map. The wind is whipping through the open windows, throwing his hair everywhere, and he squints down. "We should have stopped in Eureka, Missouri," he says to Harry. "Meramec River. Maybe we could have skinnydipped."
Harry looks over at him. "Are we past it? Where is it?"
"It's in St. Louis County. The bridge we went over last night, looking for the motel. We could go back?" Louis already knows what the answer will be even before Harry flicks the turn signal to exit. He smiles to himself.
*
The river is icy-cold and definitely not meant for skinnydipping. It's moving quickly, current strong.
"Is this the mighty Mississippi?" Harry asks excitedly.
Louis looks at him and then looks at the sign that proudly states MERAMEC RIVER. "I think, Harry," he says, "this might be the Meramec river."
Harry's only in ankle-deep, at the very edge, but he looks as if he's about to dive in. Louis watches the fast stream of water rushing past and takes a stick. "Watch, Haz," he says, as he tosses the stick as far as he can into the water. Within seconds, it's out of view, shooting down the river.
Harry stares after it. "You're like me mum."
Louis snorts. "Just don't want you getting any ideas. Your mum would have me slaughtered if you died on this little adventure."
"Legendary," Harry says back, smiling into the sun.
"Yeah," Louis says. "Legendary." He gingerly tiptoes across the rocks to stand next to Harry, cursing quietly.
Harry grabs his hand and takes a step deeper. "Shit shit shit," he mutters. "Bloody cold, innit?"
Louis opens his mouth to agree, but there's a loud shout behind them. They whip around, staring at a massively round park ranger on the embankment.
"You can't be down there," he's yelling. "This is not a designated tourist area! You trying to get killed?"
Louis chances a glance at Harry and as soon as their eyes meet they burst into giggles, dashing out of the water and grabbing their shoes, climbing up the steep bank to their car. The ranger watches them go, a distinct call of fucking tourists chasing them.
Harry's still laughing when he dives behind the wheel, slamming the door and jamming the key in the ignition, barely waiting for Louis to be fully in the car before pealing out of the shoulder of the road.
"Oh my god," Louis says, gasping for breath. "I think that was Peppa Pig's creepy uncle."
"Jesus fuck," Harry exclaims, bursting into another round of giggles. "What an image."
Louis glances down and smiles, pleased. He grabs the camera again, taking another photo. The sun is much more overhead now, giving Harry a yellow glow, and his face is open with laughter, limbs relaxed.
"How're we gonna split these pictures up?" Harry asks after a few minutes of silence. They're whipping past open fields now. Louis is counting the different variations of farm animals, but he has to give up because apparently the only goddamn animal in this country is cow.
"What do you mean?" Louis responds absently, sunwarm and calm.
"Like, when the trip's over? We're only gonna have one copy of each photo." Harry's hands are tight on the steering wheel again and Louis tenses too. Another reminder.
"Oh," Louis says. He pauses. "I get the ones of you. You can have the ones of me. We can scan them all, too, so at least we'll be able to keep them all somewhere. But I want the ones of you."
Harry bites at his lip. "Yeah," he says quietly. "That sounds good. I want the ones of you."
They're silent again, but it's not relaxed.
Then, "For my wank bank, obviously."
Louis throws his head back and laughs, punching Harry in the shoulder. "Don't get my hopes up, love."
Harry's laughing now, too. "Aw, baby, you know I'm always good for it."
Louis keeps chuckling, but a vise is around his chest, squeezing. "Good for a wank? Yeah, mate, I've noticed."
Harry just waggles his eyebrows and they steady on the ribbon of highway. Louis rests his arm out the window, catching at the air with his fingers, staving off the sadness as best as he's ever been able to.
It seems like Harry's trying, too, but it's always been harder for him.
His right hand sneaks over and grabs Louis's left as the song changes and Louis just holds on.
*
The third night is spent in Joplin, Missouri, and Harry sings Me and Bobby McGee until Louis hits him with the folded map.
"Was feelin' as faded as my jeaaaans," Harry croons on the fourth morning from the passenger seat. He grabs the camera and Louis tries to bite back a smile but fails miserably as Harry snaps a picture.
"You look a proper Marc Jacobs model, Lou," Harry comments. "Those cheekbones, the jawline, the aviators. The fringe. Proper high fashion."
Louis just rolls his eyes, rasping out, "Feelin' good was good enough for me," and Harry joins in, singing, "Good enough for me and my Bobby McGee."
They fade into silence, letting Janis' greatest hits album narrate the drive. The heat is already coming off the road in waves, rippling the air, and Louis wonders when he'll get used to this.
Harry hums along a little, staring out the window and tapping his fingers to the beat. "Hey," he says suddenly, "we should go to a real biker bar tonight."
Louis laughs. "Sweetcheeks, you're still a baby in this country, remember?"
Harry rolls his eyes. "If they card, which they won't - christ, it's like you've never even seen any movies - we'll scarper. But we should try."
And Louis is powerless, here in this moment, this strange country with this beautiful boy, powerless to not give him everything he wants. He changes the music to Bob Dylan and smiles at the blue sky. "Alright, H. But when we get our arses kicked, I'm going to remind you whose idea this was."
Harry laughs, delighted. "I have tattoos. I'll protect you, princess."
Louis shakes his head, flips him off half-heartedly.
Around eight in the evening, after numerous stops at the most ridiculous of roadside attractions - Louis honestly did not know souvenir shops had such a wide array of bolo ties - Harry whacks Louis sharply in the arm, pointing into the distance at a turnoff into a low building with a huge façade out front and motorcycles lining the car park. Louis smirks.
"Let's find a motel first, yeah?" he says.
Harry shakes his head. "Right there, mate," he says, pointing again next to the building, where a blinking, half-burnt out neon sign advertises The Red Door Inn.
Flipping on the blinker, Louis eases off into the car park, tyres grinding into the gravel. "Convenient."
They get a room and Louis makes Harry stay in the car. He's shocked when Harry agrees readily, but figures neither of them need slurs thrown their way at an inn next to a biker bar outside Tulsa, Oklahoma.
They drop their bags in the room, and Louis marvels at how they all seem to look the same; every room along this highway.
"What're you gonna wear, Lou?" Harry calls over to him as Louis stands over the sink, washing his face.
Louis shrugs. "I dunno. White v-neck and cutoffs. I really doubt I can pull off 'tough.'"
Harry snorts. "Yeah. I'm gonna go with a tank and black cutoffs, I think." He laughs a little. "I'm kind of nervous. Is that stupid?"
Louis walks out of the bathroom and gives Harry a once-over, nodding slightly in approval. "Nah, I mean, shit, H, at least you're going into this with a definite interest in pussy. I'm the twinky British boy going into a dustbowl biker bar."
Harry glances away, biting his lip. "Is this stupid? I don't want you to do anything you don't feel comfortable with."
"I'm good," Louis says, shrugging. "Don't, like, pull tonight, though, yeah? I don't fancy being left alone." He says it lightly, but his hands are sweating. He shoves them in his pockets.
Harry catches his eye and his expression is serious. "Lou, come on, I'm not here to shag birds."
Louis nods.
"I mean," Harry continues, glancing away briefly before looking back at Louis. "All of it, you know? I'm not here with you, on this trip, to get girls. So don't worry about that."
The mood is heavy, suddenly, and the sun is disappearing over the horizon, glowing orange. Louis swallows. He doesn't want to take this any more seriously than Harry means it. He says, casual, "Sure." He shrugs. "But don't hold back because of me if you, like, are feeling it or whatever, you know? I don't mind at all. I can sleep in the car or whatever if you want the room."
Harry just shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "You're so stupid," he says, and it's all fond.
"Rude," Louis replies, grabbing the room key and his wallet, making sure anything of any value is hidden from view. "Shall we?"
*
The bar is dark, but illuminated all through with neon beer signs and bright lights around the pool tables. There's a poker game advertised in the downstairs, and every single person sitting around the bar looks to be over fifty, with actual prison tattoos, not just the Harry Styles brand of overly sentimental doodlings. Harry's eyes are wide and Louis feels his face glaze over into blankness as all eyes rest on them.
Harry guides them over to the bar with a hand on the small of Louis back and Louis goes stiff, tense, because Harry is so fucking naïve. He steps away slightly, and Harry glances over at him, wounded. Louis glares at him sharply. "Are you kidding me?" he whispers.
Harry looks around quickly and all eyes are still on them, the two young boys with soft, pretty features. Louis swallows, licking his lips.
The bartender swaggers over to them, a mean smirk on his lips. "Can I get you boys anything?" he asks.
Louis clears his throat. Harry likes stupid fruity cocktails and, god, this is so not where they should be right now. Harry's too young for this, too innocent for this. He has no idea what people like this think of boys like them - like Louis in particular - and he's never wanted Harry to have to find out.
"Yeah, two pints of Bud, please," he says, carefully.
The bartender's face changes, immediately becoming more amused, more animalistic. A hawk spotting an injured squirrel. "Sure thing," he drawls. "Where you boys from and what the fuck are you doing around here?"
Harry's silent beside Louis, staring at the signage decorating the walls, advertising beer and guns and hunting and how many kills per season and - god - taxidermy and barely clothed women. His hands are folded in his lap and his knuckles are white.
Louis glances over at him, worried, before saying, "We're from northern England, actually. Doing a vacation before the brains of the outfit starts school in the fall."
The bartender scoffs a little, snorting and hocking a loogie onto the floor. Louis thinks every muscle in his body has been tightened like a too-sharp guitar.
"Two Buds," the bartender grunts, sliding them over. "That's $2.50 or tab."
"We'll hold off on the tab for now, thanks," Louis says, dropping three dollars on the bar. The bartender nods shortly and moves away. Louis very clearly hears the discussions swirling on either sides of them, terms he hasn't registered in years filtering into his brain.
He takes a long drink and elbows Harry. Harry glances at him, eyes wide and young and scared. His lower lip is pulled into his mouth, digging in till the skin is white.
"Drink," Louis hisses. "We don't have to stay, but, christ, Harry, you have to relax or we're gonna get eaten alive."
Harry shakes himself minutely and takes a long drink of beer, trying and failing to hide the face he always fucking pulls.
There's movement behind them. Louis very carefully stares at the shelf of liquor, feeling Harry seize up even further.
"You're awful pretty," comes a beer-soaked breath onto Louis's neck with a thick southern accent. "Awful pretty to be in a place like this, sweetheart."
Louis licks his lips and turns a little to the man. He's huge in every direction, the kind of huge where it's muscle and fat all twisted together to form a kind of solidity Louis will never have. He's scarred and bearded with grey, wiry hair and cold eyes.
"You here for business or pleasure?" the man rumbles, voice dropping lewdly on the last word, eyes raking over Louis's body.
Louis smiles as best he can, tense. "Just here on holiday, mate. Thought we'd stop for a drink, is all."
The man grunts and grins back, dirty, showing missing and half-rotted teeth. He brings his hand up and strokes one knotted finger down the line of Louis's spine. Louis stills immediately, frozen in fear and shock. Harry's motionless beside him for a moment, until he bursts into life, sliding off his stool, pressing a hand into the man's massive chest, and oh god.
Harry's big - he's big compared to Louis and he's big compared to their friends, but Louis is now acutely aware of how fucking scrawny Harry is and how tiny his hand looks on this bloke's chest and oh, god.
The man isn't even swayed by Harry and he just sucks his teeth, spitting on the floor at their feet. Louis is still frozen in his chair, watching with wide eyes as Harry faces up to this man.
"Don't talk to him that way," Harry says, and oh god fucking damn it, his voice is shaking. Louis is clutching his beer with a deathgrip.
"Oh?" The man is laughing now, and all eyes are still on them, predatory, amused, and circling. "He your boyfriend, kid?" and now the murmurings are clearer, words more defined, enunciated. Louis closes his eyes and slides off his stool to stand next to Harry, grasping his upper arm.
"Harry, leave it. We're leaving."
And Harry's still staring at the man, wide eyed and every emotion swirling across his face. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Louis needs to get them out of here.
"Looks like your little twink needs a good fucking," the man drawls. "You gonna see to him?"
The whispers are coming closer and Louis's chest is heaving, trying to catch his breath, the hot, smoky air of the bar melting into a cold sweat across his bare skin. "Harry," he says sharply, shaking him.
Harry jerks into it, glancing down at Louis and nodding shortly. He pulls out of Louis's grip on his arm and grabs at his hand instead, twining their fingers together and pulling Louis toward the door. Louis closes his eyes and says a prayer to a god he absolutely doesn't believe in, following Harry blindly.
Slurs and catcalls escort them out, but they make it to fresh air and Louis drops Harry's hand, stalking determinedly toward the hotel, not pausing to make sure Harry's following.
He is, though, and when the door slams behind both of them, Louis is shaking. He can't turn to look at Harry, doesn't know what to say to him. Doesn't know how to make him understand.
"Louis," Harry says, low and soft, gentle. As if Louis is some goddamn spooked horse.
Louis bites his lip and presses his palms into his eyes. He doesn't say anything.
"Lou," Harry tries again. "Are you okay?"
Louis takes a deep breath, willing himself to calm down, for his hands to stop fucking shaking.
He hears Harry come up behind him, feels his hand press carefully against his side, and he twitches away, walking two steps forward, and he whirls around, looking Harry in the eye.
"What the fuck," Louis starts, voice dangerous, sharp, "do you think you were doing in there?"
Harry takes a step back, flinching. He looks shocked. Louis wants to - god - he wants to hit him.
"What? I - Lou, people can't just-"
"No," Louis cuts him off. "No, Harry, people can and they will and you need to not put yourself in fucking danger like you're going to protect my fucking honour, you hear me? God, you don't know what people like that are like, alright? You don't know what they think of people like us - me. People like me. You cannot pick fights in a bar full of thirty men, each of them bigger than you and me combined. You cannot. You cannot put yourself in danger like that."
Harry's staring at him, mouth open, face white.
Louis drops his eyes, shoulders slumping. "I'm sorry. I'm - I'm sorry. I just. I never, ever wanted you to have to deal with something like this and I'm sorry this happened." He scrubs his hand through his hair. "I'm so fucking tired."
Harry's silent, back to gnawing on his lip.
Louis steps toward him, hand out. He grabs at the hem of Harry's teeshirt, pulling him in slightly until Harry's legs move and then the mood crashes down around them - Harry falls into Louis and Louis wraps his arms around him, swaying them lightly on the spot, whispering in his ear.
"It's alright, Haz, it's okay. We're okay," he murmurs. Harry's back is heaving and his breath is heavy through Louis's shirt. Louis closes his eyes and fists a hand into Harry's hair when he feels damp spots soaking through to his shoulder. "Hazza," he sighs.
Harry's hands are fitted tightly around Louis's waist, and Louis gently walks them to the bed, tipping Harry carefully down onto it, curling into him immediately. Harry gazes at him, dark, damp eyes and bitten-red lips. He's so young. Louis brushes his curls back from his forehead, fitting his hand on the curve of his neck.
"I'm sorry," Harry whispers. "I just - I couldn't handle it. Hearing that. About you." His breath still isn't coming evenly and his fingers are still digging into Louis's side, under his shirt, pressing into skin as if to make sure Louis won't disappear from him. Louis tucks himself closer, so their bodies are pressed together.
"I know, H," he whispers back. "It's not - like. I," he swallows, wondering how to phrase this. "I appreciate it, I guess," he continues, "not that I need you to take care of me, you dick," he says, a note of teasing in his voice. "I'm not some damsel in distress."
Harry coughs out a little laugh and Louis smiles weakly back, before saying, "But I appreciate your concern, I guess. Or whatever. Just. You're a good friend, H. Best I've got."
Nodding slightly, Harry lets out a shuddering breath into Louis's hair, pulling him in even tighter before ducking his head down so their noses are aligned. "Didn't mean to come over all, like, macho," he says, looking sheepish.
Louis rolls his eyes. "Trust me, love, you didn't."
Harry huffs out a laugh. "Fuck you," he says, and leans in more, brushing their lips together.
Louis's eyes snap open and his body locks back into frozen muscles. Harry pushes forward, opening his lips around Louis's, sucking lightly on his lower. Louis's hand is still on Harry's neck and his other wrapped around his back and Harry's hands are moving now, under his shirt around to his the small of his back, spreading across the entire thing and pulling him in, opening Louis's mouth with his tongue. He rolls them slightly, pressing Louis down into the bed and sliding his thigh between both of Louis's.
Louis's eyes slam shut and his body shocks into it. His fingers are curling against Harry's scalp and digging into the muscles in Harry's back and he's pushing up against the solid weight above him, gasping slightly into Harry's mouth, and Harry's pushing down with his hips and Louis shudders when he feels the hot press of Harry's cock against his own and he sucks in a sharp breath, pulling back.
"Harry," he says, and he hates how weak his voice is, how needy.
Harry looks down at him, eyes still dark, but not scared anymore. He combs his fingers through Louis's hair, pushing his fringe off his forehead. "Lou," he rasps.
Louis squeezes his eyes shut and unwraps his arms from around Harry. "No," he says. "We're not doing this."
He slides off the bed and takes a shaky breath, twisting his hands together nervously. His feels wild, spinning dangerously off his axis.
Harry gazes up at him, mouth turned down. "I..." he starts, then stops, blinking quickly. "Sorry, Lou, I just - sorry," he mumbles.
Louis wants to fucking cry or scream or, god, destroy something. "It's okay," he says, choked. "It's - it's okay, H, sorry. I just. We can't do that. We can't."
Hurt flashes across Harry's face, intense. It's fleeting, his expression settling into a blank mask that he's never quite been able to pull off. Louis wants to curl up and die.
"Yeah," Harry says quietly. "Okay. Sorry." He slides over to the far side of the bed, sitting up and swinging his legs over, burying his face in his hands briefly before tugging off his shorts and shirt and curling up under the covers, back to Louis.
Louis closes his eyes, mouthing fuck into the darkness, before undressing and sliding into the other side of the bed. They don't touch all night.
next