we can take the long road home

by pinkcords

Summary:

Late afternoon seeps into the cab, just shy of too warm, and the breeze that crosses window to window tosses their hair in their eyes, around their faces. They ride in pleasant silence, the radio humming softly in the background as they speed down the coast, and when Louis looks over, Harry’s smiling to himself, a private happiness born from whatever’s going on in his head. Louis likes to think it has something to do with him, or at the very least, this adventure they’ve embarked on together, chosen to see through to San Diego.

Or, Harry and Louis fall in love down the coast of California.

Notes:

As with all my writing, the last stretch always feels the hardest to complete. I hope I did these characters and their story justice and that you love their journey as much as I do.

I've been to some of the places mentioned, but please excuse any inaccuracies you may come across!

His wipers are working double time and holding on by a thread when Louis reaches Seattle, rain pissing down in buckets and making him squint through his distorted windshield just to make out the tail lights in front of him. The frantic beat and creak of the blades drown the static tune of his radio and Louis shuts it off to aid his concentration. He should have gotten the damn things replaced before he’d left Montana, but he’d pocketed the cash and decided to take his chances. As luck would have it, he’s regretting that decision, deeply, and he pats the dash in encouragement.

“Just a little further. Gotta find a place to bunker down,” he tells old Rhoda. She’s a blue pickup truck from the late 90s that’s seen better days, but the only thing he’d taken with him from Connecticut when he’d left home a decade ago. That and a rucksack full of clothes.

It’s a bit too much to ask from Rhoda in heavy rain like this. The wipers pass over the windshield one more time before the rubber separates from the metal arm, hissing across the glass as they scratch an arc into the surface.

“Fuck,” Louis spits.

It’s useless to keep going. As stubborn as he is, Louis knows he’ll have a bigger problem on his hands if he loses his sight to the downpour and causes an accident. He pulls off to the curb and kills the engine, the cab of the truck engulfed in driving sheets of water both from the sky and passing traffic. He can’t imagine he’s lucky enough to be near an auto shop or a motel, but he figures it’s worth a look. The alternative is staying inside his truck until the rain stops and from what he’s heard, that’s not common this time of year in Washington. When it doesn’t show signs of letting up, Louis pulls his hood over his head and tucks into his waxed jacket, braving the torrent.

There isn’t much down this way, a couple of bars and a coffee shop, but Louis keeps walking, hopeful, his arms folded across his chest as he blinks raindrops from his eyelashes. There aren’t too many other poor souls out on the street, but when he passes an older gentleman walking in the opposite direction, Louis flags him down.

“Hey,” he calls over the splash of cars speeding by. “Any idea where there’s an auto shop?”

The man looks puzzled, racks his brain for a split second, and then shakes his head at the same time as he hurries off towards his previous destination.

“Shit,” Louis sighs. He steps under an awning of a restaurant and pulls his phone from his pocket, a model so slow it shouldn’t be considered modern technology. The browser barely loads and the effort uses the last of his battery, the screen going black. “ Fuck .”

Louis sticks his head out and looks left, then right, but it’s altogether unhelpful in navigating him towards a location that might have windshield wipers. His jeans and boots are soaked through, and though he’s dry beneath his jacket, he can already feel the chill creeping up his spine. A little further , he thinks, and makes his way back out into the rain to trudge another block up the street, avoiding puddles when he can, useless as it may be.

Miserably, when he reaches the corner of the next intersection, he only spots an art supply store. Louis’ priorities shift in an instant as he focuses on the inviting windows, warm and colorful inside, and dry becomes all he can hear between his ears. He crosses the street on a red light and zips through the door, shaking enough rain from his jacket and hood that he creates his own puddle. Art’s not really his thing, but he appreciates that the temperature is above freezing and that he can peel his drenched hood off his head. He has no intention of purchasing anything, but he can at least browse until the heat returns to his fingers and toes and he can make his way back to his truck. Then he’ll make a Plan B.

As he wanders among the aisles of acrylics and oil pastels, sketchbooks and craft paper, Louis admires those born with natural talent, those that can turn a canvas into a universe of its own if they choose to. With nothing but a high school degree and some basic skills, Louis’ always relied on his hands and his labor to see him through his adult life. He’d gotten the hell out of Mystic as soon as he’d graduated with no plan and barely any savings, his few belongings and anything of value to him thrown into the back of Rhoda. His mom had done her best, with him, with his sisters, but he’d never seen eye to eye with her second husband and Louis had decided he’d had enough. He didn’t need to be the man of the house, but Dan sure did, and he took every opportunity to make sure Louis knew it too. So Louis had left, writing his future as he went and chasing odd jobs to keep himself afloat, make sure he had a warm meal to eat and on occasion, somewhere else to sleep other than the cramped seats of the cab. Those jobs never lasted more than a few months at a time, but they were enough to keep him going if he was frugal with his spending. 

Before Seattle, he’d been holed up in Choteau, Montana for close to two years, the longest he’d ever stayed anywhere. A widower too mulish to admit to his own age had put an ad in the local paper for some assistance around his ranch, primarily mending fence and some landscaping. Louis had rattled down the dirt drive in Rhoda in answer, the Rocky Mountains standing guard, all black shale and peaked with snow that still hadn’t melted despite it being early summer. He’d expected to show up for a few tasks daily and Leonard had instead given him hard, honest work that was rewarded with a place to sleep. In fact, Louis had a small cabin on the edge of the pasture to himself. It was boiling hot at the height of the day, but at night, the cool air from the mountains rolled in through the open windows, bringing the scent of the valley with it.

Louis took to Leonard’s instruction and learned to patch fences, roll hay, and handle a horse while herding cows across acre upon acre. He’d gotten up after his first day of work so sore that he’d thought he was dying from the inside out, but soon the ache turned to muscle and his blisters to callus and life continued on. Leonard had stopped working, but got up at dawn each day to supervise and check up on Louis on days that were so hot it was like the devil had arrived himself. Louis liked to think Leonard had been more or less just keeping him company. 

And then one day, Louis hadn’t seen Leonard at all. He’d finished his work and rode his mare down to the lodge, in search of his old, but friendly face, and had found the yard eerily quiet. The crickets had even been silent. When Louis had gotten inside, he’d found Leonard collapsed on the kitchen floor, his morning cup of coffee shattered beside him. He hadn’t needed to feel for a pulse to know it was too late. Louis had called the local authorities, given his statement, and that had been that. It was time to move on. 

For a few days, Louis hadn’t known where to go. He’d considered staying in Montana, finding work on another ranch, but the idea of dedicating his time and energy anywhere else had made his grief flare to the surface. For Louis had been fond of Leonard, of his patience as he turned Louis from a drifter to damn near a cowboy, of his lifetime of stories and advice that had no real practice in Louis’ life, but that he appreciated nonetheless. Anywhere else wouldn’t feel right. So Louis had drifted on. 

Now, as he makes his way down the next aisle, fingertips idly slipping over a display of markers, his boot makes contact with an object and sends it skating across the worn floor and beneath the shelving unit. Louis frowns as he catches sight of its corner poking out and bends down, fishing it back out. It’s a leather bound, well loved journal, and though Louis feels like it’s an invasion of privacy, he flips through a few pages, searching for a clue as to its owner. He’s met with spreads of watercolor, landscapes that make Louis feel as peaceful and serene as he once did, sat atop his mare and staring out over the valley and the cows that had, for a time, felt more like his family than his own ever had. The illustrations are so soft, so calming, that Louis finds himself staring at each page for several minutes. A clatter somewhere else in the store causes him to look up in a hurry and he glances around himself, wondering if someone near had dropped it. But he’s the only one in the aisle and he hasn’t seen another person aside from the one girl on shift behind the register up front. 

Louis turns back the front cover and finally comes across an identity. Or what looks like one. 

 

HES (206) 324 - 2428

 

There’s no reason for him to hang onto the book, to take responsibility for finding its way home. He could, he reasons, just turn it in at the front desk and hope that its owner will come searching one day. But it’s been some time since Louis’ done a good deed and in a strange way, he feels like he was meant to find it. He can’t find any other reason he would have been compelled to continue walking in a deluge of rain and find himself in an art supply shop. 

Louis doesn’t buy anything, but he does take the journal with him. The rain, by some miracle, has let up, but he still tucks the leather book into his jacket for safe keeping, lest any of the pages come to ruin on his way back. He doesn’t know who HES is, but he hopes to find them, to reunite them with their book of tiny worlds. If he lost something as precious as what he’s holding, he’d want it back too.

When he gets back to his truck, he drives another mile or two to the skirts of the city. He doesn’t find a new set of windshield wipers, but he does manage to find a motel that won’t eat up too much of his savings for the night. The journal goes largely forgotten as he takes a shower and helps himself to a scone and a bagel from the motel lobby, leftover from breakfast that morning. They’re only slightly stale, but after living on beans and beef at Leonard’s for the last couple years, the carbs are welcome, no matter what form they take. 

His phone takes a good thirty minutes to squeeze enough juice from the socket to turn on, the face finally lighting up. He has no new messages or missed calls, but he hadn’t been expecting any; no one’s usually in search of him. Instead, he flips open the journal to the phone number and carefully dials each digit. Once it starts to ring, he thinks about hanging up and just sending a text, but the other line picks up almost immediately.

“Hello?” 

The voice that answers is much deeper than Louis had anticipated, throwing him. He’s not sure what he expected, a woman or man, but regardless, it takes him a second to recover.

“Uh,” Louis says, rather intelligently. He closes his eyes to resist rolling them at himself. “Hi. Um. Is this… HES?”

“HE - what? Who is this?” the other person asks. Louis thinks he can detect vague annoyance.

Louis rubs the back of his head. “Louis.”

“I don’t know a Louis. I think you might have the wrong number?”

“No, no. I don’t think so,” Louis says, shaking his head as he double checks the number on the screen to the one scribbled in the journal. “I found a sketchbook. This number was written inside. Along with HES. I think they’re initials?”

There’s a pause and then a soft, embarrased laugh. “Oh. Yes. I am HES.”

“Are you… missing a journal then?” Louis asks.

A shuffle on the other end. “Oh… fuck. I am. I didn’t even realize. It’s not in my bag.”

“That would make sense,” Louis chuckles. “Considering I’m holding it just now.”

HES laughs again, the same sheepish tone. “You’re right.”

“Can I drop it off somewhere?” Louis asks. 

The voice hums, considering. “Want to meet at Ghost Note?”

Louis pauses. “I… am not sure what I’m agreeing to, but yes.”

“It’s just coffee,” he answers. “Craft coffee.”

Louis doesn’t know what craft coffee is, hasn’t had a cup that didn’t come from a gas station since he left Montana. For some reason, he doesn’t want to seem uncool or uncultured, so he changes course. “You got a name, sketchbook?”

“Oh! It’s Harry,” HES - Harry - tells him. “Harry Edward Styles.”

Louis smiles, breathes a chuckle into the phone. “That’s a mouthful. Hope you don’t go by your full name.”

“No, no. Just Harry is fine,” Harry says. Louis can hear what he thinks is a smile.

“Alright, Just Harry. I’ll meet you at your ghost shop tomorrow. 2pm alright?” Louis aks.

Harry sounds like he’s writing something down, but a moment later he answers. “2pm is perfect. I’ll see you then,” he says. “Oh, and thanks. For finding my journal. It means a lot to me.”

“Think it was just luck, honestly,” Louis reasons with a shrug. He hadn’t been intentionally seeking out lost journals when he’d stepped foot into the shop. “I’ll see you.”

Louis hangs up and sets his phone on the nightstand beside him, Harry’s sketchbook safe beneath it. Truth be told, he’d had half a mind to have another look through it, but after speaking to Harry, hearing the sentimentality in his voice when he thanked him for finding it, Louis decides against it. He doesn’t know if Harry’s got secrets pressed between the pages and landscapes, but Louis knows it’s not his place to go looking for them.

When he falls asleep that night, the motel sheets just on the side of itchy, he dreams of where he’s going next, someplace nameless, someplace that surely doesn’t exist, the hills and cliffs and ocean all alive with brushstrokes. 

x

Louis takes Rhoda back into the city and, after a quick stop for wipers, manages to find Ghost Note without much issue. As he’s learning, parking is sparse and it takes him another fifteen minutes to find a spot he can back the old truck into comfortably. Still, he arrives a bit early. As soon as he steps inside the cafe, he immediately feels out of place. The crowd is mostly college students, all seemingly to belong to the arts in some form, and Louis can see why this was Harry’s chosen meeting spot if his paintings are anything to go by. It doesn’t make him feel any less a sore thumb, his jeans worn and a hole in the elbow of his flannel.

The menu he spots on the clipboard just inside the door reads as gibberish to him. He doesn’t know the difference between a latte or an Americano or a cappucino, but he feels like he should based upon the company around him. With a glance back to the doors, he hopes Harry makes his appearance soon, that he’ll take his journal and Louis can get the hell out of here before he’s forced to make a fool of himself while ordering something as simple as coffee . 

“Can I get you something, sir?” The girl behind the counter is watching him with intrigue, wiping down the counter. 

Louis shakes his head. “Uh, not yet. Waiting for a… friend.”

She nods indifferently and walks away to the other end of the bar, straightening bags of coffee beans on the back worktop. It’s then that Louis realizes he has no idea how he’ll know when Harry arrives. He doesn’t know what he looks like, just has a vague recollection of a voice an octave too deep from the evening before.

“Hey, actually. You got a pen?” Louis calls to the girl. She nods with curiosity, but hands it over to him anyway. “Thanks.”

Louis reaches for one of the brown napkins at the milk bar, scribbling Harry aka HES on the surface. It’s barely visible unless in close range, but he figures it’ll do the job and if anything, when Harry does find him, it might make him laugh. Once again, Louis finds himself unsure why such a thought has even crossed his mind. Maybe he’s been lonely, he thinks. Not even romantically, but just for some company, someone to talk to, share the pleasure of laughing with. 

The bell on the door rings just as Louis holds the makeshift napkin to his chest and turns towards it. A guy steps in, tall and a bit gangly, pigeon toed, his hair in need of a trim, though Louis kind of likes that it’s long and curly to his shoulders, slightly tangled from the wind. He’s dressed in an olive jumper and skinny jeans that are torn at the knee, artfully casual and conforming to the sort that this cafe apparently attracts. He’s lean and attractive and entirely Louis’ type: out of his league. Louis’ pretty sure that this isn’t Harry.

Until he’s proven wrong. 

“Louis?” Harry asks, his eyebrows raising when he spots the napkin. He smiles and then laughs, a dimple hollowing out in his cheek that Louis never sees coming. It leaves him speechless for a moment, focused on Harry’s toothy grin and his eyes that blaze green when he’s close. 

Louis bites the inside of his cheek to bring himself back. “Yeah, that’s me. Harry, right?”

“Harry,” he says, nodding. “But you seem to remember that.” Harry tries to bite back a smirk as he plucks the napkin from Louis’ fingers.

Louis chuckles, letting his hand fall from its position in front of his chest. He holds out Harry’s journal in his opposite one. “Think this belongs to you then.”

Harry takes the sketchbook, their fingers brushing in the transition. It makes Louis look away, tuck his hands into the front pocket of his jeans, bashful in a way he hasn’t been since the first boy he kissed back in Connecticut years ago. And all because he happened to touch this guy’s hand. 

“Thank you. For seeing her back to me safely,” Harry says, hugging the journal to his chest. “Some of my favorites are in here.”

Louis nods. “Of course. I couldn’t help but notice a few. You’re very talented. Would’ve been a shame if they were lost forever.”

“Too kind.” Harry smiles, a bit soft on the edges, a bit shy, mirroring Louis’ energy. Louis’ not exactly sure what’s happening between them just now, if he’s making it all up in his head. 

“Anyway,” Louis says, clearing his throat. “It was nice to meet you, Just Harry.”

Harry’s eyes find his again, his words coming out in a rush. “Wait! Can I get you a coffee at least? All found possessions deserve a reward!”

“Oh.” Louis looks back at the menu and behind the counter, the girl hitting knobs and levers on an expensive looking machine, and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. He doesn’t want to admit he doesn’t know the first thing about ordering coffee in a place like this. “Yeah, alright. I’ll have what you’re having,” he settles on. 

Harry beams at him and sets his journal on one of the high top tables, claiming it. Louis takes a seat on one side as Harry rattles off an order, fingertips tapping on the tabletop.

“Hope you like lattes,” Harry says as he scoots himself onto the bar stool opposite. 

Harry’s demeanor makes Louis feel at ease. He hasn’t stopped smiling since he stepped foot inside and he seems kind, well intentioned, like Louis could tell him anything and he’d take it in stride, no judgment. There are just people like that, Louis thinks, the sort you can know for five minutes and feel like you’ve known a lifetime. 

“Don’t think I’ve ever had one,” he finally confesses. 

To Harry’s credit, he only looks mildly alarmed for a split second before it turns to genuine concern. “Really? Not big on coffee then? They’ve tea! Or water.”

“No, no. I like coffee just fine. Just… usually get a cup at a gas station. Or McDonald’s,” Louis tells him, wry. “Whatever’s around, really.”

Harry wrinkles his nose, but it doesn’t feel critical. Louis’ mostly too distracted by his face in general, the little mannerisms that jump out at him and make him want to sit here, in this coffee shop, for hours, watching him. 

“I’m not from Seattle. Just got into town yesterday, actually,” Louis explains with a shrug. “So it’s usually whatever I can find. Something quick, cheap.”

“Where are you from then?” Harry asks curiously. 

The girl - barista , Louis guesses - approaches the table and sets down two round mugs, foamy on top with a decorative heart shape. It doesn’t look like coffee, more like milk, but Louis takes a tentative sip as he contemplates his answer. 

“Nowhere,” he decides on. He licks some milk froth from his lip and raises his eyebrows, nodding. “It’s good. Not as bitter.”

“Hard not to beat gas station coffee,” Harry reasons with a chuckle as he cups both hands around his mug. “You don’t have a home then?”

“It’s a long story,” Louis says, shrugging. “I travel a lot. When I find a place worth staying, I stay. And then I keep going.” He pauses and takes another sip of his coffee - latte. “You’re from here? Seattle?”

Harry shakes his head. “Not originally, no. I grew up in Illinois, but I have an aunt here that I’m staying with. I guess I just wanted to experience somewhere different. And it’s beautiful here, Washington. Lots to paint.”

“You only do nature scenes?” Louis asks, curious. 

“Now, yeah. Suppose I drew everything when I was a kid, but I like landscapes. It’s peaceful, you know? Just setting up somewhere and being alone. Being in nature,” Harry explains. Subconsciously, his hand rests over his journal.

Louis knows what he means, so he nods. He thinks about long, hard days coming to an end and sitting on the back of his mare, watching the sun fall and the cows graze, close together as the temperature dropped towards nightfall. He thinks of early mornings, the dew and mist barely clear, not a soul awake but him and the animals. He never felt lonely then, just at peace, with himself, with the world, everything serene and uncomplicated. 

“Are you staying in Seattle?” Harry asks, effectively breaking Louis’ train of thought. 

“I don’t think so,” Louis replies honestly. “Headed here first, but I think my plan is to drive down the coast to San Diego. Never seen much of California. And then I’ll probably cut across to Texas.”

“Texas?” Harry raises his eyebrows, prompting. 

Louis breathes a laugh at his curiosity, compelled to answer. “I’m not really cut out for the city. I can work with my hands and that’s about it. By then, I’ll need to find work again.”

“Are you a cowboy?” Harry asks him, a playful smirk inching its way across his mouth.

Louis laughs, full and bright this time. “Not quite, but I know my way around a ranch.”

“Cowboy,” Harry quips, smiling around the rim of his mug. 

Louis thinks he might be flirting, but he doesn’t want to mistake friendliness for interest. He takes another sip of his latte to hide his own smile pulling at the corners and finishes the rest. “Might be a latte man now. You’ve ruined gas station coffee for me.”

“You’re welcome,” Harry says, saluting him. 

Louis chuckles and places the empty mug down, shifting off the stool to his feet. “I should be on my way. But thank you for the coffee, Harry.” He gestures to Harry’s journal. “Take care of that sketchbook. Don’t let it get into the wrong hands.”

“I’ll be careful,” Harry agrees. “Good luck wherever you go next.”

Louis nods, smiling genuinely, and thinks if he had his hat on, he’d tip the brim. Maybe he is a cowboy after all. As Harry looks back at him, eyes kind and gentle and green, Louis thinks it’s a shame to know someone like him only for a fraction. He’s one of those strangers that’s touched his life with a flip through his illustrations and regular conversation, that he’ll remember all through California as he makes his way towards the next chapter in his story. He waves goodbye to Harry once more and heads out the door, the bell jingling as he departs. 

With his hands shoved deep in his pockets, Louis starts the walk up the block towards Rhoda. But he doesn’t get much further than the corner, his name echoing behind him. He stops and turns back with a frown of confusion, spotting an elderly woman and then, just beyond, Harry running down the sidewalk as fast as his wiry legs will take him. 

“Louis! Wait!” Harry yells, though it’s clear Louis has stopped walking. 

Louis pats his back pockets and feels both his wallet and phone in each. There’s nothing else he could have left behind that Harry’s chased after him to return. 

Harry skitters to a stop in front of him, panting, his long hair more out of control and windswept than it had been when he’d stepped into the cafe. “Take me with you,” he breathes. 

“What?” Louis asks, shaking his head, bewildered. 

“To San Diego,” Harry puffs, his hands on his hips as he catches his breath. “Take me with you.”

Louis stares at him, dumbfounded. He can’t fathom why a stranger he just met wants to accompany him down the coast, but perhaps more puzzling yet is Louis’ desire to say yes. Harry seems like a nice enough guy, certainly easy on the eyes, but Louis doesn’t know him. He could be a terrible road trip companion, falling asleep on the most boring bits of the drive and wanting to stop when Louis wants to keep going. He could have awful taste in music or turn his nose up at fast food. And still, Louis finds himself considering it, Harry’s hopeful expression imploring as he stares back at Louis. 

“I could use a change of scenery,” Harry continues with a shrug by way of explanation. 

That’s what does it. Because Louis knows that feeling well, the restlessness and desire to wander. He knows the itch that settles under his bones when he’s been in one place for too long and the curiosity that blooms under his heart to discover new places, find new work and create new stories. The freedom to come and go as he pleases has always been his. He’d hate to turn Harry down, keep him tethered to Seattle and whatever life he has here when it’s so clear in his eyes that he craves more. 

Louis lets out a breath and pushes a hand back through his fringe. “Alright. I was gonna leave first thing tomorrow morning. But I can wait another day if you need to like, get your stuff in order or whatever,” he says. 

Harry shakes his head, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth to hide a smile that’s equally triumphant and full of excitement. “I just need to pack a bag. I don’t have much at my aunt’s anyway.”

“I’m at the Belltown Inn,” Louis tells him, hooking his thumb unhelpfully over his shoulder. “Wanna come by? Let’s call it 6am.”

“Yeah. I can do that,” Harry agrees. This time, he lets his smile run wild. “Thank you.”

Louis shrugs, already turning to keep on towards Rhoda. “Don’t mention it. I’d hope someone would do the same for me.”

“I would!” Harry calls after him.

Louis chuckles at his eagerness. “6am! Don’t be late,” he yells back. 

Later, when he pulls back into the motel lot, he wonders what he’s gotten himself into. He’s a fine conversationalist, but there hasn’t been a time in nearly a decade that he’s had a companion, had to keep up small talk or share his thoughts with. The idea somewhat exhausts him, but it also warms something in his chest. Long stretches of road and highway can be lonely without someone to glance at, take in the view, share food, fight over the radio with. From what he knows about Harry, he seems like a perfect candidate for all those qualities. Particularly the first, he thinks, with his soft, but messy curls, cheerful smile that always seems to touch the corners of his mouth, and green, green eyes that remind him of springtime in Montana. 

“Fuck,” Louis mumbles to himself, head tilted back against the seat. Fuck, indeed. 

x

It’s drizzling the next morning, the sun tucked beneath the heavy cloud cover barely bringing enough light to qualify as daybreak. A chill runs through the parking lot despite being early summer and Louis tucks his jacket closer to his chest as he throws his duffle into the back of the cab. He’s expecting to hit the road late, positive he’ll be waiting on Harry for at least thirty minutes if not an hour or two. Dawn is a tough wake up call for anyone not accustomed, so Louis can’t say he really blames him.

But as he cuts across to the hotel lobby to see about a cup of lukewarm coffee, he spots Harry climbing out of a Volkswagen Beetle, teetering sleepily with a backpack and a massive duffle over one shoulder. He seems to be arguing with the woman driving and Louis watches them with curiosity and a raised eyebrow, standing in the middle of the asphalt. Eventually, the woman’s mouth sets into a line and she drives away, leaving nothing behind but Harry himself. Louis raises a hand in greeting and nods, heading in his direction. 

“Take it she’s not a fan of road trips?” Louis asks.

Harry rolls his eyes and pulls his duffle up further on his shoulder. “She thinks you’re going to murder me.”

“She’s got good intuition,” Louis jokes, walking off towards his initial destination. He throws a grin over his shoulder to prove that he’s only teasing, but he’s still amused to see Harry standing there, wide eyed, his hair frizzing in the mist.

“That’s not funny!” Harry yells after him, his long legs catching him up to Louis in just a few strides.

Inside, Louis hands over his room key and thanks the concierge for his stay. He lucks out with a complimentary blueberry muffin and a cup of coffee that is actually hot, but lacks any strength and mostly tastes like bitter water. Harry makes a face and nearly turns his nose up at it, but his desperation for caffeine wins out and he cringes through a few sips from the paper cup. 

“Better or worse than gas station coffee?” Harry asks him on their way back out. 

Louis takes another sip and tilts his head back and forth in consideration. “Worse. This has got to be a week old.”

“Oh god,” Harry groans. He pours what’s left of the cup onto the pavement at the side of the lot, binning it after. 

Louis reaches for Harry’s duffle, tucking his fingers around the strap on his shoulder. They make eye contact as Louis pauses, staring at one another, the warmth of Harry’s skin beneath his jumper bleeding through, a stark difference to the cool morning air. Louis looks away as he tugs, getting the bag settled in the cab with his own. 

“A backpack too, huh?” Louis comments, more for the sake of saying something, the sake of breaking tension. 

“All the supplies I could fit,” Harry admits as he climbs into the passenger seat. 

Louis gets in beside him, unfolding a map to have a look. He doesn’t have any real plan or direction other than to head to the coast and start south, so he takes a minute to contemplate their route. 

“Where to first?” Harry asks. 

Louis looks up and huffs a laugh. “Figuring that out now. Start west for the coast and pick up the 101, probably. See some of the ocean.”

“Have you before?”

“Have I what before?” Louis asks, marking off a route on the map with a highlighter, half dried out. 

“Seen the ocean,” Harry continues.

Louis shakes his head. “Not the Pacific. I grew up on the east coast, but never made it this far west.”

Harry looks at him for one long, steadying moment. And then he hijacks the map and the highlighter in one go, diverting Louis’ westbound route further to the north. 

“What are you doing?” Louis sighs, gesturing to the map that now has two different highlighted routes. 

“Seeing the Pacific Ocean,” Harry says, pointing to the line he’s mapped from Seattle to the coast. “Cape Flattery. It’s a little out of the way, but. It’s beautiful.”

Louis stares at him, unimpressed. “A little out of the way,” he comments. 

Harry just smiles at him and shrugs his shoulders, slouching down in his seat as he gets comfortable. “Do you have anywhere else to be?”

Louis looks back down at the map, at the two possible routes, and decides Harry has read right through him. He has no timeline for making it down to San Diego, no rush to arrive in Texas. Before Harry had tacked himself to this trip, Louis had no real plan, no itinerary to follow day by day, as detailed by his lack of direction now while staring at the map. Cape Flattery it is. 

“Let’s see us some ocean,” Louis agrees. He takes one last look at the route to get an initial idea of where they’re headed and then folds it up, tossing it onto the dash. 

Louis can tell Harry’s trying hard not to look smug, but it still makes him roll his eyes. He takes another sip of his coffee and coughs as he swallows. “Shit, first let’s find some proper coffee.”

“Really did turn you to the darkside, huh, cowboy?” 

Louis gives him another look and Harry fills up the cab with laughter, loud and dimpled, turning the inside from what feels like black and white to full color. It makes Louis crack his own smile, lopsided, as he turns Rhoda out to the street and into the fog, his chest warm. 

x

An hour later, fresh coffee in hand, they’re well on their way, Olympic National Park looming just miles ahead. Even with the boost of caffeine, they’re both sleepy and relatively quiet and when Louis looks over, settled into the drive, he smiles to himself, Harry’s head resting against the window, fast asleep. As it turns out, it’s not irksome at all; they’d had an early start after all, so he can allow Harry a few minutes rest. He looks so comfortable, so peaceful, curled against the door that it’s hard to imagine the seat empty as it was just a few days ago. 

They pick up Highway 112 along the peninsula and though beautiful and wooded, the hills and miles of winding road slows them down, Rhoda doing her best to climb the elevation while the brakes grind on the way down. When the forest and thick woods give way to the coast, still misty and grey, the view off the cliffs takes Louis’ breath away. The ocean disappears into the fuzzy white horizon as the waves break along jagged rock, sea spray turning one with the drizzle that falls. 

“Harry,” Louis murmurs, taking one hand off the wheel to give his shoulder a gentle shake. 

Harry jerks awake, bleary eyed, and straightens with a wince, blinking against the bright overcast light that blankets the sky. “Are we here?” he asks, rubbing a knuckle into one eye.

“Almost. Just got to the ocean,” Louis tells him. 

Harry winds the window down, the air that blows in fresh and cool and damp with sea water. It smells like salt and rain and Louis rolls his own window down, takes a breath deep in his lungs and lets it out with a satisfied sigh. The craggy coast isn’t anything like Montana, but it’s wild and desolate and Louis feels right at home, unhindered by civilization and mankind. He’s so distracted by the view, the ocean that rolls black and then white as it crests and crashes, that he doesn’t realize they’ve gone as far as they can go. They roll through the tiny town of Neah Bay and pull into the lot of the trailhead at Harry’s request. 

“There’s a spot I think you’ll like. Makes the whole drive out here worth it,” Harry tells him. 

Louis takes him in as he kills the engine, Rhoda hissing from under the hood as she cools. Harry’s hair is flat on one side and his cheek is pink from being pressed to the window, sleep still present in his eyes. He looks so genuinely pleased to be here, to share this with him, that Louis feels the same warmth stir beneath his breastbone. 

“Lead the way,” Louis answers, somewhat distracted as his eyes trace Harry’s face. 

It’s early June, but they pull on beanies and an extra layer to battle the weather anyway. The few curls that escape Harry’s hat immediately twist in the moisture and Louis bites back a smile, waiting patiently as Harry shoulders his backpack. They start down the trail after, Louis following just behind as the lot disappears from view and is instead replaced by thick trees. Hiking isn’t quite what Louis had in mind to start his trip down the coast, least of all in the rain, but it’s hardly difficult and soon, he finds he welcomes the patter of raindrops hitting the leaves and their gentle footfall. 

“You been here before then?” Louis asks, tucking his hands into his pockets to protect them from the raw, wet air. 

Harry nods up ahead, glancing back over his shoulder. “Last summer. Right after I first moved to Seattle. I did as much exploring as I could because I wasn’t sure how long I was gonna stay.”

“But you stayed?”

“But I stayed. Washington’s a bit more exciting than Illinois,” Harry chuckles. 

The path eventually turns to narrow boardwalk, foliage and bushes growing tight to the wood, and Louis feels less like they’re walking through a forest than a tunnel made of green life. 

“Why leave now then?” Louis asks, curious. He understands the wandering soul, the desire for adventure, but it still strikes him odd that Harry had such a desperation to join him. 

Harry doesn’t answer right away. He’s quiet for another minute or two and Louis’ not sure if he doesn’t know the answer or he doesn’t want to share it with him. 

“I know someone in San Diego,” Harry finally admits. “I haven’t seen him for a long time, but we had a thing. Back home.”

That’s not what Louis was expecting. He swallows and scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip, unsure of what to say, unsure of what he wants to say. He’s not angry that he is, essentially, just giving Harry a ride to San Diego instead of embarking on an open ended road trip together; he’d asked no questions in the first place and had requested no answers. But there’s a flare of disappointment that sits heavy in the pit of his stomach, one that Louis doesn’t want and never welcomed. 

“I was gonna move there with him, but I was still young and when my parents found out, all hell kind of broke loose,” Harry continues, unprompted, recounting with a chuckle. “We kept in touch for a while.”

“But not anymore?” Louis asks, finding his voice again. 

Harry shakes his head. “Distance and time, you know? But I think of him still.”

“I hope you find him,” Louis lies, hoping his tone is even enough that it doesn’t give him away. Mostly, he wonders why he cares so much. 

They continue on the boardwalk until it splits in different directions, each leading to a different view of the Pacific. Harry stops in the center of one fork, contemplating, and then turns left, so Louis follows. Here, the boards are slippery with the rain and white with salt, his boots fighting for purchase on the wood. Louis keeps a careful eye on his feet and when he looks up again, Harry’s led them to a break in the trees, the ocean dark and unruly as it smashes along the sea stacks. They rise high above the water, ghostly in the fog that drifts through the air. Louis can just make out the trees that sit on top, growing right to the edge and hanging on with their roots that grow over the cliff. 

Harry’s digging in his backpack and when he resurfaces, it’s with a familiar object: the journal Louis had found. He flips through the pages, snapping against his hands in the wind, and finally folds back a section. What Harry shows him is a mirror image of what they’re looking at over the viewpoint, perhaps on a sunny day, dated a year prior. Harry’s captured the sea stacks and the color of the water as it changes with the depth, from stormy black-blue to the crisp cerulean of the shallows. The sandstone cliffs that disappear beneath the surface of the water stand at the side of the painting, framing the landscape. 

“This is incredible, Harry,” Louis remarks, leaning his weight to one side so he can look from the sketchbook in Harry’s hands to the natural view in front of them. 

“Yeah?” Harry smiles, his cheek vanishing beneath the dimple. “I was thinking of doing another. A different perspective. If you don’t mind.”

And Louis doesn’t. He’s mesmerized by the rush of the surf in his ears, the way it’s stopped raining, but the air feels wet and heavy with moisture anyway. He thinks he could sit there all day and exist as tiny as he is in front of the power of the ocean, rolling, always rolling. In that moment, there is nowhere else for him to be, nowhere else he wants to be.

“Not at all,” he answers. 

Harry leads them away from the point and in the other direction, back down the boardwalk to another outlook. This one slopes down a steep decline, right to the edge of the water, and Louis can see where the boards are black and soaked with surf, the waves stretching higher with every pass. They pick their way down carefully, Louis somehow less surefooted than Harry and his pigeon toes. He loses sight of Harry the further he lags behind and he has a moment of mild panic, concerned Harry’s slipped, that he’s lost him to the sea. But when he finally reaches the bottom, Harry’s leaning against the railing, breathing in the salty air and observing the coast from this angle. 

“What do you think?” Harry asks him, half shouting to be heard over the thundering waves. 

Louis looks out to the rocky shore, ragged and rough, the way the sea foams and splits around fallen trees and the base of the cliffs that run like arteries just under the surface. He’s seen the ocean, been to east coast beaches during the summer and let himself be tossed by the waves as a child, but there is a distinct and stark difference to what he’s looking at now. This, it’s untamed and untouched and it makes Louis feel at peace, his problems, worries, small and insignificant in comparison. He tilts his face back, closing his eyes, and focuses on his senses that are not his sight: the ice cold spray that kicks up with the pounding waves and settles across his face in a fine mist, the roaring in his ears that drowns out the sounds of the forest cover behind them. He focuses on the way that, with his eyes closed and his hearing impaired by the sea, he should feel completely, utterly alone, and yet he doesn’t, Harry’s presence so noticeable and comforting beside him. He can feel him standing there, the warmth and solidness that takes up the space next to him on the platform. Louis’ not sure how he acutely knows where Harry is, just that he does. 

When he opens his eyes again, Harry’s staring back at him, smile soft and intimate across his lips. And Louis understands what he means, his expression. They’re sharing something so many won’t see, so many won’t know exists, a place they hiked through the rain and across slippery boards to get to. They’re sharing a mutual deep appreciation for Mother Nature, just as she is, just as she comes, unbridled. For Louis, it’s the pleasure of not being alone, of having another witness to the beauty in front of them. 

“Not what I thought it would be,” Louis admits. Harry’s face falls, but Louis chuckles, shaking his head as he moves closer to lean on the railing with him, shoulder to shoulder. “It’s more. Don’t think you can really imagine places like this.”

Harry’s shoulders relax and his smile returns as he nods. “Looks like it exists within a dream, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. Looks like there should be pirates out there,” Louis says, his grin crooked and amused. “Somewhere in the fog.”

Harry’s laughs, loud and sudden, startles a few birds from the trees around them, but the sound is mostly lost to the surf. “Just waiting to make their move.”

Harry shrugs his backpack off after, fishing around and producing a sleeve of watercolors, a small plastic cup, and a bottle of water. He pours some in the cup and then digs around for his brushes, his journal tucked under one arm. 

“Here,” Louis says, shrugging out of his jacket and folding it. He puts it down on the platform, a makeshift, dry seat. 

Harry shakes his head. “You’ll get cold. And your jacket will get all wet.”

“I’m fine. And it’s waterproof. Sit. Do your thing,” Louis says, gesturing. 

Harry gives him one more long look of protest, but he gives in quickly and sits down, arranging his tools before he begins. It’s still cold and damp down here, but it feels less so than when they first emerged from Rhoda’s warm cab. Louis leans up against a boulder that juts from the earth that the deck has been built around and just soaks in the view. He could stand there all day and never tire of what he sees, desperate to memorize. He notices new details the longer he looks: the sea birds soaring and chasing after each other, circling the edge of the cliffs, the moss that grows over and in between tightly packed rocks, no surface untouched.

When he glances back down at Harry, cross legged on his jacket, he’s already got the cliffs and horizon brushed onto the paper, feather light and still damp with water. Louis watches him then, the gentle hand he takes as he finishes the first layer of color, barely a shadow of what they’re observing together. Harry sets in on another pass, this time using less water, bringing out the details: the varying shades of grey on the cliff face, stormy blue tinged with green and crested with white for the sea.

“Where’d you learn to paint?” Louis asks, folding his arms across his chest when the wind gusts. 

Harry doesn’t look up, just keeps on working, laying color down. “Self taught. My grandma was a painter. She worked in oils, but when I was a kid, she gave me a watercolor set and I guess I’ve always just stuck to it.”

“So talented,” Louis muses, eyes still glued over Harry’s shoulder. He has no real artistic claim, probably couldn’t even make a halfway decent stick figure, so he’s amazed by Harry’s ability, can’t look away. “You ever sell anything?”

“Sometimes. Towards the end of last summer, I painted a few bigger pieces and sold them off at the farmer’s market. Nothing major,” Harry answers, shrugging. 

He starts to work on an object in the water and Louis looks up to the view in front of him, trying to place it. But there’s nothing there. His brows furrow in confusion, waiting to see what will materialize under Harry’s brush. Slowly, a tiny ghost ship comes to life, complete with a black sail, and Louis realizes it’s the imaginary pirate ship he’d spoken of. He lets out a laugh, kneeling down beside Harry to get a better look. 

“Are they getting ready for a battle?” Louis asks, their shoulders bumping together. Harry leans further into him and Louis can feel his warmth seep through his long sleeve, bicep to elbow. 

“No,” Harry decides, shaking his head. “They’ve just spotted land. They’re going to send a crew out. To explore.”

Louis smiles at the story they’ve imagined together and that Harry’s illustrated so beautifully on the page in front of him, soft and ethereal, as if truly born from dreams. Harry folds up his watercolors and blows on the wet spots of paint, though the pages are damp with the moisture in the air anyway. The last thing he does is add the date in the corner, calling this one done. 

“We should head back,” Louis says as he stands back up, his knees stiff and soaked from kneeling. “We’ve another few hours ahead of us. Thought we could stop in Ocean Shores for the night.”

Harry nods as he packs everything back into his backpack. “I can drive the next bit if you want a break,” he offers. 

“What?” Louis’ eyebrows raise behind his fringe as he shrugs his jacket back on. “No, no. Rhoda’s a one man truck.”

“Rhoda?” Harry snorts. He starts to climb the boardwalk back up to the main trail, glancing back over his shoulder at Louis. “You’re gonna need a break eventually, Lou. I’m capable of driving. Have my license and everything.”

Louis chuckles, both from the joke and Harry’s curious nickname he’d thrown on at the end. “No one drives her but me. I’ll be fine.”

“Whatever you say, cowboy,” Harry concedes, the smile evident in his voice.

They head back through the overgrown brush to the parking lot, the distance deceivingly shorter than their trek out. Here, the sky is blindingly bright, the sun hidden behind a thin veil of cloud cover, desperate to break through. It’s a good sign for the rest of their drive, perhaps a bit less gloomy, a bit less sleepy. Harry tosses his stuff into the backseat and hauls himself back into the passenger side, opening up the map on the dash, dedicated to his role as co-pilot and navigator. 

“Just take 112 back the way we came and we can pick up the 101 to head south,” Harry tells him, tracing his fingertip along the route. He taps the little coastal town of Ocean Shores on the map, destination marked. 

“Easy enough,” Louis agrees as he starts Rhoda up and begins their drive in reverse. “We’ll find a spot to stop. Get something to eat.”

With the rain having stopped, Louis rolls down his window fully, his feathery hair poking from beneath his beanie fluttering into his eyes and then away again. Harry’s slumped down in his seat once more, comfortable, but awake, watching the scenery pass and sticking a hand out the window to float on the rushing air. His companionship had come as a surprise to Louis’ loosely laid plans, but he’s more taken aback that, at least so far, they seem to get along perfectly fine. It makes Louis curious about him, his life, who he is outside of his sketchbook and tin of paints and high coffee standards. 

“Where in Illinois are you from?” Louis asks him as he takes the road slow, every bend and corner threatening. 

Harry rolls his head to look over at Louis, pleasant smile on his face. “Galena,” he answers. “Just a little town. Historical. It used to be nearly as big as Chicago in the 1800s, but the demand for lead fell and everyone left.”

“Never heard of it,” Louis admits. “But I get the small town thing.”

Harry hums and smiles, lopsided. “So you’re not from nowhere then?”

“I suppose not,” Louis chuckles, caught out. “Connecticut.”

“Connecticut,” Harry echoes, his tone lilting in encouragement for Louis to continue. 

But Louis’ hesitant to expand. One detail always leads to another and his life he left behind in Connecticut is just that: a life left behind. “A tiny town in Connecticut,” he elaborates vaguely. 

Harry rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t push, and Louis respects that about him, an innate ability to read the conversation and know when to back off, to let it lie. At the same time, he knows he doesn’t have any right to ask further details from Harry in return, but there’s a burning interest in him about this fellow he’s chasing down to San Diego. 

“Tell me about your guy,” Louis prompts. He keeps his eyes on the road as they turn onto the 101, hoping Harry doesn’t see the way his knuckles tighten on the wheel subconsciously. 

Harry looks back at him from the window. “He’s not my guy,” he says, shaking his head. “Not anymore.”

At first, Louis thinks he’s asked the wrong question, that he’s pushed too hard, but Harry’s voice comes to life again. 

“He’s also an artist. But he’s more of a sculptor,” Harry says, his eyes fixed outside the window. “My parents never liked him. Thought he was too old for me, too up himself. But I didn’t think so. Just because he had more life experience than them, than that whole town combined…” he trails and Louis can hear the eye roll in his tone rather than see it. “I liked working in his studio. I went through a portraiture phase. Mostly of him ‘cause he was there, but I also painted from reference too.”

Louis hums, not sure what to say, not sure what there is to say. He senses there’s no opinion to give and that Harry’s not looking for one, so he listens instead. 

“He got sick of the weather. Wanted to move somewhere warm and sunny. I always wanted to move to the west coast, but I was only 19. My parents thought I was a complete idiot,” Harry chuckles, but it’s wry. He rolls his head back to look at Louis and Louis can tell a question is coming. “How old are you? You’re not allowed to answer with ‘numbers.’”

Louis laughs at that, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “I’m 28,” he confesses. 

“He gives me a true answer at last,” Harry teases, propping one long leg on the dash.

Louis finds himself distracted by it, eyes darting from the road to the shape of Harry’s calf, the strength of his thigh. Being on the road, never in one place long enough for it to matter, Louis’ not thought much about relationships. There isn’t room for one in his life, not when he hasn’t got a permanent address and no reason to settle down. It’s been more than a year since the last sorry soul he’d slept with and left on his way out of town and Louis kind of wants to keep it that way. It’s easier, uncomplicated. 

Harry catches him out, his lips fighting a smirk, and Louis scoffs immediately, smacking a hand at Harry’s boot while he fights the flush on his cheeks, down his neck. 

“Getcha boots off my girl. Don’t you have manners?” he scolds instead. 

x

By the time they arrive in Ocean Shores, the weather has cleared to a brilliant blue sky, dusted with wispy clouds that remind Louis of Harry’s brushstrokes. It’s considerably warmer than it had been that morning, kissed by the late afternoon sun and less windy than it had been further north. There are early season tourists strolling the sidewalks, carrying sandy towels and toting along plastic pails and shovels, small children in their wake. The tiny town is alive with the sounds of summer and it brings a smile to Louis’ lips as he keeps an eye out for lodging with vacancies. 

They end up pulling into the North Beach Motel, a somewhat run down establishment that catches their eye with a vacancy sign that’s held by a pair of surfing sasquatches. Louis finds them hysterical, but they only serve to make Harry skeptical, eyeing the wooden figures warily when Louis kills the engine. 

“We can’t stay here,” Harry decides, poking his head out of the window.

Louis snorts, already climbing out of the cab. “Why not? It’s like $45 for the night.”

“I don’t trust a place that has a couple of Big Foot right outside! They’re fucking creepy.” 

Louis rolls his eyes and walks around to the passenger side, leaning his arms along the rolled down window, Harry still inside in protest. “I’ll keep you safe when they come alive past midnight and come knocking,” Louis says, unable to help the grin. It’s too easy, he’s learning, to get a rise out of Harry. “Or I might sacrifice you.”

“I should have listened to my aunt,” Harry groans, sliding down further in his seat. Begrudgingly, he swings the door open, bumping Louis on his way out.

“C’mon! They’re funny! It’ll be fine,” Louis encourages. He claps a hand over Harry’s opposite shoulder and steers him to the office. “I’ve stayed in much worse places.”

The tiny reception is as dated as it comes, paint chipping off the walls and an ancient accounting calculator sitting front and center on the desk. Brochures of local attractions that look like they were printed twenty years ago, yellowing at the edges, sit beside a service bell. Louis gives it a tap with his palm, but it makes nothing but a sad, tinny clap and falls silent, requesting no one’s attention. Harry immediately gives him a look, hanging back a few paces as if to make a run for it at the first sign of trouble. In fact, Louis’ certain he’s considering the whole vibe of this place as ten signs of trouble.

The screen door to the back whines on its springs as it swings open and Harry visibly jumps, bumping into Louis’ back at the same time. An old man limps in, surprise taking over his grizzled features when he notices the two of them standing there, Harry half hidden behind Louis despite having several inches on him. The old man stares at them while they stare back and for several passing seconds, no one says anything. 

“What can I do for you, boys?” the man growls, though Louis suspects that’s just what he sounds like when he spots a packet of Marlboros on the desk. 

Louis takes a step forward from Harry and can practically feel the hesitance coming off him in waves. “Just a room for tonight, please.”

The man makes a grunt of assent, starting to scribble on a pad of carbon paper to make out a receipt, his hand shaking, slow. Louis looks back at Harry and chooses to ignore the pleading in his eyes, turning to the front desk again. 

“Like your Big Foot out there,” Louis comments, making small talk. 

“They’re sasquatches,” the old man barks, tearing the receipt off the pad. “That’ll be $51.32. Quiet hours start at 8pm, the vending machine is out of service, if you need anything, no one’s here after 10pm. Check out’s at 11am.”

Louis fishes his wallet out of his back pocket, but Harry finally takes a tentative step forward, producing a fifty dollar bill. Louis gives him a look and slides it back, but Harry insists, pushing it in front of him once more. They go back and forth for a moment until the bill flutters onto the desk in front of the old man and they both stare at him, wide eyed. 

“Guess it’s $1.32 now,” he says, already tucking the fifty away. 

Louis scowls and hands over $2, waving off the need for change. “I get the next one,” he tells Harry, low. 

“You already got coffee and lunch,” Harry hisses back. 

The old man watches them with critical eyes and then slides over the room key, attached to a tiny replica surfboard. “No funny business in the room. Quiet hours. 8pm,” he repeats.

Harry’s eyes go wider than Louis thought possible, turning a bright shade of red that goes all the way to his chest. Louis has to roll his lips between his teeth to keep from laughing and he lifts the room key and receipt in departure. “8pm,” he agrees. “Thanks.”

Outside, Harry’s breath bursts from his mouth like he’d been holding it the entire time. He wheels on Louis immediately. “Funny business! He thinks we’re together!” he whisper-shouts. 

Louis grins, walking back towards Rhoda to collect their things. “So? We’re not. He can think whatever he wants.”

“That doesn’t bother you?” Harry asks. He shoulders his backpack, but Louis takes both their duffles, one in either hand. 

Louis shrugs. “Nah. People can think whatever they want to. Doesn’t have any effect on me.”

Louis heads for their room, Harry still trailing behind him with reluctance. When the door swings open, it reveals a room that matches its age to the office, but holds two beds nonetheless. They’re dressed with ugly floral comforters that are pilling, dusty beach decor hanging crookedly on the walls over each one. But Louis’ used to this; in fact, he’s seen much worse. A place to sleep is a place to sleep and as much as he loves Rhoda, the backseat does his back no favors, the interior stuffy in the summer and icy cold in the winter. 

“This is life on the road,” Louis says with a shrug, tossing Harry’s duffle onto one of the beds. “Nothing more you need. Bed, shower, electricity.”

Harry still looks unconvinced, but once he has a look around and determines everything is relatively clean, he relaxes. “Security,” he jokes, hooking his thumb back towards the sasquatches.

Louis cracks a smile, glancing at his phone for the time. “Sun doesn’t go down for another while. Wanna have a walk around?”

They head down the main street from the motel towards the heart of the town, decorated on either side with tourist shops that sell trinkets, beach goods, candy, and ice cream. It reminds Louis a lot of the east coast, the stores he’d drag his mom into for saltwater taffy or penny candy. Though the town feels like it’s stuck in time, several decades past, there’s an air of nostalgia to it that they both appreciate. As they walk, Louis finds himself watching Harry more than the storefronts they pass, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, but attentive all the same with curiosity. 

“Want an ice cream?” Louis suggests when they’re coming up on the third stand in just half a mile.

“Sure. Mint chip, if they’ve got it,” Harry says, stopping short and scanning the menu tacked to the front. 

“No shit?” Louis’ eyebrows raise in surprise. “That’s my favorite.”

Harry smiles, warm, a bit bashful with the commonality. “Mine too.”

They both get a couple scoops stacked in waffle cones fresh from the iron, crisp at the edges but still slightly chewy as they eat their way down. The strip ends along the boardwalk to the beach, so they take their ice cream down to a patch of unbothered sand, sitting side by side as the ocean crashes in waves and settles in white sea foam that reaches for them. Harry’s got green stickiness from melted ice cream down his wrist and he stands up, rolling his skinny jeans up his legs as far as they’ll go.

“I’m gonna rinse off,” he says, walking backwards, already heading for the sea. 

Louis nods minutely and watches him go, Harry turning himself right and proceeding down the beach. He takes the opportunity to think, to process. Somehow in the last 48 hours, he’s discovered a lost sketchbook, traded it back to its owner, acquired said owner on his travels, and already made it seven hours from Seattle, though it should have only taken two. He thinks about Harry, still very much a stranger and how he doesn’t feel like one at all, watches as he pursues the receding water and then dashes away when the waves chase him right back. Louis smiles, hears his own private laughter, and knows how easily it would be to get attached, get used to Harry being a part of his days, a part of his life. 

“Shit,” he sighs. He scrubs his hands through his hair and reminds himself that this is only temporary. It’s likely not even Harry per se, but a deeper loneliness he’s been ignoring, a desire for companionship the older he gets. 

When he looks up, Harry’s walking back up the beach towards him. He holds his hands out to Louis, gesturing. “C’mon!”

Louis gives him a skeptical look, but he takes Harry’s hands and pulls himself to his feet anyway. For a moment, Harry doesn’t let go, both of them just staring at the other until Harry gives his hand a shake and skips back down to the ocean’s edge. Louis knows he’s supposed to follow, so he does, a lazy meander, stopping along the way to roll his own jeans up his ankles. 

“So you’ve seen the Pacific, but now you get to stick your feet in,” Harry clarifies. He’s wiggled his toes and dug them down into the wet sand, hidden. 

“This feels like a ceremony,” Louis jokes. He takes a step forward and lets the sea consume his feet, disappearing beneath rivulets of water and stray sand that settles on top. 

Harry watches him, his face soft with early evening light and a gentle smile, and then leans over to bump their shoulders together. “How’s it feel?”

“Like I’ve been born again,” Louis says, teasing. He holds his arms out to the side and tilts his face to the sky, purposely dramatic. 

Harry rolls his eyes, but he laughs anyway. When he starts to walk further down the beach, still in the ocean’s wake, Louis follows once again. They stroll like that for a while, in comfortable silence, their hair blowing into their eyes on salty air, the breeze a hint cooler as the sun falls. 

“Where are we going next?” Harry asks him. He drifts sideways into Louis, accidental if Louis had to guess, but he doesn’t move away either, their elbows knocking together as they walk.

Louis shrugs. “Dunno. Suppose we head to Oregon. Got any more wonders of the world to show me?” He grins.

“I’m fresh out,” Harry laughs, ducking his head down, bashful. “Never been to Oregon, actually. It’ll be a first for both of us.”

“We can figure it out tonight. When we get back,” Louis suggests. “Find a new place to head towards.”

When the last blinding slice of sun disappears behind the horizon, they turn back towards their original spot on the beach. Louis hadn’t realized how far they’d wandered, but by the time they return, the sky has faded from orange to deep purple, the only warmth still touching the skyline. They collect their boots and socks, still where they left them, and pad barefoot along the street until the sand dries and shakes from their feet. It fills Louis with the same nostalgia for summers as a kid, running around in his trunks and sandy toes, sandals lost, or at the very least, abandoned. Mostly, he’s struck with the feeling of contentment, something he searches for wherever he goes and never quite finds. Montana had been the closest thing to it.

It takes them an extra forty minutes to get back to the motel, a pit stop for dinner (fried clams and fries for Louis, a veggie panini for Harry) and candy delaying their arrival. The candy shop had been Harry’s idea and they’d both been appalled at the total when the bag hit the scale, half a mind to leave it behind. In the end, Harry had been too polite and forked over far too much cash for some saltwater taffy and sour gummy ropes. 

“I can’t believe you paid almost $30 for that,” Louis laughs as he swings the door to their room open. He tosses his boots aside and throws his socks towards his bed.

Harry drops the bag of candy on the table with a thud. “Well, it is a lot! But if you bought it all separate at some other store, it definitely wouldn’t be $30.”

“Such a scam. They charge way too much per pound.” Louis drops back on his bed, starfishing, and only then feels the exhaustion setting in. Between the hiking, the long drive, and the late afternoon sunshine, he feels the longing desire to stay right where he is and never move again.

Somewhere to his right, he can hear Harry moving around, and when he opens his eyes, he’s shirtless, down to his jeans as he rummages in his duffle. Louis can’t help but stare, partly in surprise at the number of tattoos Harry had been hiding, though he’s mostly distracted by Harry’s body in general. Louis’ eyes drink him in, his skin a bit pale, soft at the hips with stubborn baby fat that hasn’t quite left, the fine hair that leads into his boxer briefs, exposed just over his jeans. Louis feels his mouth go dry just as Harry looks up at him and he quickly turns away, closes his eyes again like he hadn’t just been caught out. 

“Do you mind if I have the shower first?” Harry asks, holding clean clothes in his arms across his chest.

Louis shakes his head without opening his eyes, without looking back at Harry. “Knock yourself out.”

Louis doesn’t move a muscle until he hears the bathroom door click shut, his breath escaping in a loud whoosh. He sits himself up on his elbows and chances a glance at the door, wondering if he’s alarmed Harry, if he’s going to come out of the bathroom with a change of heart and a new plan to get himself to San Diego. He has to be more careful, Louis decides. No matter how handsome, how kind Harry is, no matter how easy it is to be around him, Louis can’t get attached. Their roadtrip won’t see the month out and Harry’s final destination is his ex-boyfriend’s doorstep. He’s not interested in Louis and Louis should not be interested in him. Louis likes things simple, uncomplicated, with no room for feelings or desire.

He dozes off sometime during the crisis inside his head, one arm slung over his eyes and blocking out the yellow motel lighting. His pulse jumps beneath a touch and when he jerks awake, cracks his eyes open to the shadow hanging over him, he almost startles. But it’s just Harry, his curls wet and soaking the shoulders of his t-shirt, fingertips gingerly holding onto Louis’ wrist.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Harry says, hushed. His fingers are still wrapped around Louis’ wrist and he slides his thumb over the bone, just once, before releasing. “Just wanted to let you know I was out. If you wanted to shower.”

Louis hums, drawing in a deep breath at the touch that he covers with a yawn. “Thanks. Sounds real nice after being in the truck all day.”

“It is,” Harry agrees, smiling as he throws his towel over the back of the lone chair in the room. “Even saved you some hot water.”

The water pressure isn’t great, but Louis’ not one to complain, and once he’s under the spray, it hardly matters, hot and relaxing. He stands there, his fingers circling the spot Harry’s had just occupied on his wrist, back in the same spiral he’d found himself in before he’d fallen asleep. Frustrated, he lets go and rests his forehead against the tiled wall, letting the water beat against his back. There is no solution to this dilemma, he thinks, other than to remind himself repeatedly that this is all short term, that Harry is not his, that he is just a friend meant to briefly occupy his life if not barely an acquaintance. Harry’s softness, easy conversation and delicate touches, are nothing more than his kindness. Louis had picked up on his warmth the very first day he met him, knew there was something special about who he was as a person. A part of Louis wonders if he’s meant to be more than just a fleeting companion, but he can’t parse his feelings from his gut that tells him otherwise. 

When he steps back into the bedroom, it’s dark except for the dim lamp beside his bed, Harry an obscure lump beneath the ugly duvet. Louis can tell he’s sleeping by the way his chest rises and falls, so slow Louis watches for a moment to be certain he’s alive. He’s envious of how soundly he’s sleeping, his own eyes burning with exhaustion and barely enough energy to change into a pair of boxer briefs and a clean t-shirt. 

The moment he climbs into bed, lumpy with one spring that pokes particularly prominently at the edge, he can feel sleep coming for him. He lets the sound of Harry’s breathing travel to his ears, lulling his mind to a dull roar until everything falls away, the lamp forgotten and watching over them. 

x

It takes a solid thirty seconds to recognize his surroundings when Louis blinks awake the next morning. His fringe is stuck to his forehead, growing too warm some time in the night, and he takes a few breaths, slowly rousing to full consciousness. Harry . He looks quickly to the side, tries to decipher the shapes he can make out in the darkness. Harry is still out cold, spread across the entire mattress with the sheets hanging to the ground, kicked off at some point during the night. Louis watches him breathe, the rise and fall of his chest that’s barely noticeable in the weak light, and thinks about where they’re headed today. Harry had fallen asleep before they could discuss their next destination, the map still on Rhoda’s dash.

It’s still early, dawn barely filtering through the dusty curtains, but he knows there’s no chance of falling back to sleep. He yawns into the back of his wrist, giving up on sleep and dreams alike and heaving himself out of bed. The first thing he can make out in the weak light is Harry’s jacket, so he throws it on over his t-shirt and heads out to Rhoda for the map. On his own, Louis just drives until he feels like stopping, until he sees a motel or something that interests him, no particular landing place decided prior. With Harry, Louis feels a sort of responsibility that he enjoys himself, sees what he wants to see just as much as Louis does. 

If possible, the sasquatch look more eerie and spectral in the haze that lingers across the grounds, a blanket of humidity. Louis waves to them as he retrieves the map and hurries back inside, collecting sand off the asphalt on his bare feet. Tracing the 101 further south, Louis searches a few destinations on his ancient phone, trying to balance miles behind them with seeing some of Oregon. The map crinkles under his touch, loud in the otherwise silent room, and Harry snorts suddenly, lifting his head, his hair pasted flat to one side. Louis looks over at him, eyes wide in apology, though he can’t help but crack a smile, the sleep so evident on Harry’s face that it pulls Louis’ growing affection to the surface. 

“Time is it?” Harry whispers through a yawn, rolling to his back and further tangling himself in the disaster that is his sheets. 

Louis finishes highlighting their route and folds the map back up. “Just after 6. Still early.”

“We going now?” Harry asks, one eye on Louis from beneath his arm slung across his face. 

“In a little. Wake up first,” Louis encourages. 

Harry stares at him fixedly, deep in thought, and Louis’ about to ask until Harry beats him to the explanation. “Is that my jacket?”

Louis hadn’t realized he still had it on and he nods, shrugging out of it. “Yeah, sorry. I just grabbed the first thing I saw to run out to the truck.”

Harry shakes his head. “It’s okay. Keep it. Looks good on you,” he says. “Kinda oversized is in.”

Fashion trends are not something Louis concerns himself with, but he focuses on Harry’s compliment, rolling his lips between his teeth to keep from smiling and stave off the furious blush that’s threatening. “Thanks.”

Once Harry splashes some water on his face, they pack up quickly and head out, dropping the room key in a return box outside the office. At this hour, they’re back on the 101 in a blink, two ghosts that rolled into Ocean Shores and left just as silently. It’s warmer than yesterday had started, the sun bright as it rises, and though Louis doesn’t want to, he shrugs out of Harry’s jacket and rolls the windows down. They make a brief stop off the highway for coffee and stale breakfast sandwiches, Louis educating Harry on the finer things of gas station dining. It’s terrible, but it fills their empty stomachs and keeps them going, onwards. 

“We never said where we were headed next,” Harry says, one foot propped on the dash. 

Louis smiles, glances over at him. “I made an executive decision. Six hours down to Yachats. There’s a lighthouse.”

“A lighthouse!” Harry repeats enthusiastically. He looks chuffed, so Louis reasons he made a sound decision. 

They make it halfway there before Louis figures they’re due for a stretch. He’s heard the same song on the radio three times and Harry’s been shifting restlessly in his seat for the better part of an hour, either trying to get comfortable or trying to keep himself awake. When they pull off to the rest area, the look of relief on Harry’s face makes him laugh.

“Not used to long rides?” Louis asks him as the engine ticks slowly, cooling down.

Harry adjusts again, his fingers already on the handle. “My back. It bothers me sometimes,” he explains.

Louis nods, remembers the first few days he spent all day driving and how stiff his body had been when he finally dropped himself out from behind the wheel. Overtime, he’d either gotten used to it or learned to ignore the minor aches and pains that came with spending hours in a worn out seat with little lumbar support.

They take turns using the bathroom, a small shack that barely qualifies as such and makes Louis hold his breath when he steps inside, hot and reeking. Harry had gone first and nearly gasped for air when he exited, but when Louis returns to the truck, he seems to have steadied himself, scrolling on his phone. 

Louis pops a cigarette from the pack and leans against the truck bed as he lights it, holding it away from Harry after he takes the first puff. “Not the worst one I’ve been in,” he says, gesturing to the ramshackle restrooms. 

“I thought I was going to suffocate in there,” Harry says, dramatic, though his attention remains on his phone.

Louis can’t help but roll his eyes, though it’s fonder than he means it to be, the corners of his lips pulling up in a smile. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Mmm… nope. I hope I don’t,” Harry decides, shaking his head.

Louis laughs, tilting his head back and forth. Fair enough. “What are you looking at over there?”

“There’s a B&B. By the lighthouse,” Harry tells him, leaning close to show the photos he’s been scrolling through. Harry’s hip presses to his, connected shoulder to thigh, and Louis sucks on his cigarette for distraction, the photos a blur of quaint charm and white picket fence. 

“We should stay there,” Harry adds.

Louis kicks at a rock on the pavement, rubbing at one of his eyes with his ring finger and then flicking away ash. “It’s probably expensive.”

“We can split it,” Harry suggests. He has the same hopeful expression on his face he’d worn the day he’d asked Louis to take him along. “Or 70/30. I don’t mind.”

“You already paid for the sasquatches!” Louis protests. He tosses his cigarette aside, stepping on the filter with his heel. 

Harry’s nose wrinkles as though it’s a memory he’s been actively trying to forget. “But look at it, Lou! It’s just down a ways from the lighthouse. Right on the ocean. It’s in the lightkeeper’s home!” His hands flail in exasperation, waving his phone around.

Louis takes a good look at him, all imploring green eyes full of eagerness, and wonders when he became so easy. He hasn’t looked at the cost of one night at the B&B, but he’s willing to bet it’s triple or more his nightly budget for lodging. And yet, there he is, standing in a burning hot parking lot, considering with a strong desire to say yes. Because he knows it’ll make Harry happy, will make him smile and laugh and ramble once they get back in the car about whatever else he’s learned, drummed up on his phone about the B&B and the lighthouse.

“We can splash out this once,” Louis concedes.

Harry whoops. His smile outshines the sun, nearly blinds Louis, and he throws himself at him, knocking Louis back a step. In any other circumstance, it would be too hot to be this close, to feel his t-shirt sticking to his chest with the pressure of Harry’s. Instead, Louis finds that it’s right where he wants to be, his entire body relaxing in the presence of another, the first time in months. Harry smells like the motel body wash, a bit like salt and sweat, and he feels broad in Louis’ arms, in a way the eye doesn’t give away. Louis closes his eyes, breathes him in, and then claps him on the back once as he makes to step away.

Harry pulls him back, just for a split second, and squeezes once, tight. “Thank you. Swear you won’t regret it.”

“At least it might have better water pressure,” Louis jokes.

They climb back into Rhoda and power through the last of the drive. As Louis expects, Harry spends the afternoon googling the lighthouse, reading off anything he can find that strikes him with interest. Harry learns, and so Louis learns, that its light shines 21 miles out to sea, that it’s the brightest light on Oregon’s coast and said to be the most photographed lighthouse in the United States. He learns that all lighthouses were part of the US Lighthouse Service, that it ended in the 1930s and responsibilities were assumed by the US Coast Guard. They are all things Louis wouldn’t have bothered to look up on his own, just preferring to take things as they are, but he nods along with interest, makes sounds of acknowledgement as Harry reads passage after passage from the tourist page. 

When they finally turn down the desolate road to the lighthouse, the sun is low in the sky, making its slow, elegant exit as it does every evening. The light turns the cab a warm yellow-orange, everything cast in gold and gilded. It highlights the sharpness of Harry’s jaw, the barely there stubble and the plane of his cheek where Louis knows there is a dimple hiding. He forces himself to look away lest he drive them off a cliff, distracted by this man who’s wandered into his life and filled his days with color just as he fills his sketchbooks. Louis clears his throat and Harry looks over at him, but Louis’ eyes are already cast to the coast, the sea that crashes violently against the bluffs.

To their relief, the B&B is more inviting than the motel in Ocean Shores, sweet and twee just like the photos Harry had shown him, dated in a way that doesn’t feel spooky, but like they’ve willfully stepped back in time. They take the smallest, cheapest room in the lightkeeper’s home and, unsurprisingly, it eats up a good portion of Louis’ budget for the next few days. It’s well worth it, though, and he hardly feels the guilt of spending so much on one night when he watches Harry mill around the lobby, looking at the historical photographs and framed articles about the lighthouse, enamored. 

“So unfortunately you’ve just missed it, but there is a wine and cheese social in the evenings, in case you plan to extend your stay. And in the mornings we serve a seven course breakfast!” the woman at the front desk informs them cheerfully as she passes over a brochure with the room key.

Harry spins to face her, pointing to a newspaper clipping on display. “There’s a ghost?”

“Oh yes,” the woman laughs, nodding. “Rue. She was the lightkeeper’s wife. We think she’s searching for her daughter. One of them drowned in the ocean, tragically. There’s an unmarked grave up on the hillside, so we think that might be her.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, eyes wide and unmoving, and Louis chuckles while turning back to the desk, taking their key. “Thank you. I’ll be sure to let her know where to find her daughter if we see her.”

“We’re not going to see her,” Harry hisses to him, though his voice wavers, unsure. 

They walk back out to the truck to retrieve their duffles, Harry’s backpack. Louis grins, unable to help himself. “Says who? Sounds like she must look for her every night.”

“Louis!” Harry huffs, slamming the door.

Louis just laughs, his bag slung behind his shoulder as he returns to the house and heads up the stairs to their assigned room. He doesn’t quite believe in the supernatural, but he’s not frightened in any case, certain Rue is likely harmless, just a restless soul with unfinished business. 

Like the rest of the house, their room is old and charming, lace curtains and floral wallpaper that’s yellowed at the ceiling with age. The floorboards are wide and scarred, original to the home, and in the center is a single, four poster bed. Louis stops in the doorframe and doesn’t take another step, Harry nearly walking into him as he looks over his shoulder. 

“What?” Harry asks.

“I didn’t realize she’d given us a room with one bed,” Louis answers, soft. 

“Oh.” Harry steps around Louis, drops his things to the ground and spins around the room slowly, as though another bed will suddenly fall from thin air if he turns in enough circles. “Well, I can sleep on the floor. No problem.”

“Don’t be silly, Harry. Your back is already fucked. And I know you wanted to stay here. I can sleep on the floor,” Louis assures him. He sets his things down beside Harry’s at the foot of the bed. 

Harry worries his bottom lip, both with his teeth and his fingers, tugging at it. “What?” Louis asks him.

“I feel bad,” Harry confesses. “I know it was a lot to stay here and now I’m making you sleep on the floor.”

“You’re not making me do anything, H. I’m offering,” Louis tells him. He’s vaguely aware that he’s just called Harry H , but he’s more concerned with comforting him, taking his guilt away. He squeezes a hand over Harry’s shoulder and then drops it away. “C’mon. It’s getting dark. Let’s go check out the lighthouse before the ghosts come out to party.”

Louis swings the keys around his finger and tilts his head, urging Harry with him. For a moment, Harry forgets about the bed and narrows his eyes on Louis at the mention of ghosts, staring him down as he walks past him. Louis’ laughter chases him down the stairs.

There’s a basket of flashlights for borrowing at the front desk and Louis takes the heftiest one, turning it on once they’re outside the reach of the porch lights. The path up to the lighthouse is a bit overgrown, pitch black the further they get, and Louis shines the flashlight ahead of them, mapping out their steps. The darker it gets, the closer Harry follows him, until he’s nearly stepping on the back of Louis’ boots and has a hand fisted in his hoodie at the small of his back. For once, Louis bites his tongue against teasing him, happy to lead the way and provide a safety net, Harry’s nerves palpable. 

“Frightened?” Louis asks him as they trek up the hillside. 

Harry drops his hand from Louis’ sweatshirt, folding his arms around himself instead. “It’s just hard to see.”

“That’s alright. I got you,” Louis reassures. He takes Harry’s wrist to lead him along and eventually, Harry’s fingers find his back again, curling into the fabric. 

It’s windy at the crest of the hill, wild and dense with grass and weeds. The lighthouse looks much larger when standing at the base of it than it had back at the house and they both stare up at it, intimidated by its size and stature. Beyond the cliff, the ocean is a black hole, loud enough to be heard, though the waves are lost to the darkness. Only when the ghostly beam of the lighthouse sweeps across its surface are the swells defined, charging towards the crag. Louis holds his breath, picturing a lost rig bobbing on those savage waves, following the guiding light home, safe at last. 

There’s a rustle in the bushes at the base of the lighthouse and Louis stumbles forward a step, Harry pressing so close it throws him off balance. “What was that?” he whispers. 

“Probably just an animal. A little critter,” Louis chuckles, throwing the light in the direction of the disturbance. Nothing moves or makes a sound and he turns back to Harry, smiling. “See? No ghost.”

Harry covers Louis’ hand with his own, scanning the light over the ground until he’s comforted that they are alone. His hand is cold, palm clammy, and Louis tears his attention from where they are touching to instead lean his shoulder against Harry’s. “I won’t let anything get you,” he promises.

They take the path around to the front of the lighthouse, to the edge of the cliff, and sit on the rocks, side by side. The water is louder here, a constant roar that ebbs and flows, and Louis squints, his eyes adjusting until he can see the ocean rolling, climbing the bluffs. It’s chilly, the wind whipping and carrying sea spray when it slams high enough, and Louis pulls his hood over his head and his knees to his chest. He gets the same feeling he had at Cape Flattery, that he’s small and insignificant compared to the power of the sea, the vast darkness that surrounds them and hangs above, an endless black sky. It’s not unpleasant, but settles any anxieties that sit at the back of Louis’ heart, unimportant and irrelevant to the world around him. Harry sits beside him, quiet and similarly pensive, their shoulders touching. 

“Where were you before Seattle?” Harry asks, his voice soft and curious, though it sounds loud in the otherwise silence around them. 

Louis considers whether or not he wants to answer, to share any of his before . He’s very much a person that’s always looking forward, moving forward, at peace that no one can change the past. He can’t see why any of it matters, but he feels compelled to tell Harry anyway, his demeanor genuine. 

Louis clears his throat and licks over his bottom lip. “Montana,” he tells him. 

Harry cracks a grin in the darkness, a slice of white against his dark face. “Knew you were a cowboy,” he teases. 

“Actually, I was. Sort of. Reckon I became one over time without meaning to.” Louis smiles, thinks back to the viridescent pastures surrounded by proud mountains, the peace only interrupted by the sounds of the prairie. Where he sits now is completely different and it’s one of the things he loves about traveling, about drifting the way he does. “I just picked up a job and kinda never left. Just kept taking on more and more.”

“How’d you end up in Seattle then?” Harry wonders. 

Louis swallows and hugs his knees closer until he can rest his chin on one. “He, um. He passed away. The man who owned the ranch. Felt like the time to move on.”

Harry’s head whips toward him, his expression both alarmed at the truth and that he’d asked the question in the first place. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean -“

“It’s okay, Harry. Don’t worry about it. You didn’t know,” Louis reassures. “We weren’t real close or anything, but I liked it there. Liked him too. Was the first place that I ever wanted to stay longer than a couple weeks.”

Harry stays silent for a beat, unsure of whether to continue on the subject or let it drop. “What kind of stuff did you do?” he asks instead, changing course. 

“Ah, just ranch stuff. Mended fence, kept an eye on the cattle, mowed the pastures down for hay. The usual,” Louis says, shrugging. 

Harry chuckles. “‘The usual,’” he says. “I’ve barely been near a cow.”

Louis laughs, lifting his head so his face is visible from beneath his hood. “City boy.”

Harry lifts his hands to concede, no argument. “Small town boy turned city boy.”

Louis hums in answer, pulling his sleeves down over his hands. It had felt cool when they’d left the house, but up on the hill, unsheltered, it’s nearly unpleasant. 

“When did you leave home?” Harry presses. 

Again, Louis is struck with juxtaposing desires to both answer and ask Harry to drop it. He looks over at Harry and can see he’s about to apologize, so Louis talks instead. 

“Right after high school,” he says, coughing to give himself a moment to think through how much he wants to give up. “Didn’t get along with my stepdad.”

Harry nods, though Louis suspects he doesn’t quite get it, doesn’t understand living under a roof with someone who doesn’t like you. It used to hurt more than it does now, knowing he’d been driven away from his home, his family, by a display of masculinity, but by now he’s learned to rely on himself and himself alone. It’s a scar, not a wound.

“Leave anyone behind?” Harry questions. 

Louis snorts, looks back over at him. “Curious tonight, aren’t you?”

“Sorry,” Harry whispers. 

Louis shakes his head, leans sideways until his shoulder touches Harry’s so he knows it’s alright. Eventually, he speaks. “I had a boyfriend, but he was going to college and he knew the only thing I really cared about was getting the fuck out of Mystic.”

Even in the darkness, Louis can see Harry frown. He’d broken off his relationship a decade ago, so far in the past that Louis can hardly remember what he looked like. “What?” he asks. 

“Just… you’ve never wanted another?” Harry says. 

Louis’ eyebrows raise, disappearing under the edge of his hood. “Who says I didn’t?”

Harry gives him a look, connecting the dots and seeing right through his false indignation. 

“I don’t need anyone. I’ve got myself. I’ve got Rhoda,” Louis jokes, his head nodding down the hill to where the truck sits in the parking lot. 

Harry falls quiet and folds his long legs up, mirroring Louis’ position, knees to chest. For a long time, he doesn’t say a word, just stares straight ahead to the pitch black sea. 

“Just sad to go through life alone,” Harry finally comments, his voice barely audible, a whisper on the wind. “Having no one. Not one person you can count on. No one to be your lighthouse, to guide you home.”

Suddenly, the cold air around them feels hot beneath Louis’ hoodie, stifling. He doesn’t need relationship advice, least of all from Harry, someone he’s only met days ago and who doesn’t know anything about him, the life he’s lived or why he lives it. He hates this conversation, he realizes, regrets answering any of Harry’s leading questions to begin with. 

“I don’t have a home,” Louis says, his voice hard and firm, an end to their chat. He stands up and brushes the grass and gravel from his jeans. “C’mon, it’s cold. Let’s go in.”

Harry stares up at him with his lips parted, speechless, but eventually he looks away and folds, pushing himself back to his feet. He follows Louis back down the hill, the beam from the flashlight bouncing with each of Louis’ steps. They don’t talk on the way down, not so much as a word, the silence palpable once they get inside and find the B&B empty, the front desk closed for the night and illuminated by a tiny lamp. Their footsteps sound too loud, too heavy, as they make their way back to the room. 

While Harry brushes his teeth, Louis sets about dragging the extra quilt to the floor and making himself a little cocoon that’ll hopefully cushion the hardwoods and make for a decent bed. He thinks about why he feels so angry and realizes it’s not anger at all, but a reaction to his sudden vulnerability, something he’s kept hidden and suppressed for years. His chest feels raw and exposed, like someone’s peeled back his skin and opened his ribs for show and tell, figured out all the things Louis won’t even let himself think about, finds too terrifying and painful to try to answer. Not one person you can count on, no lighthouse…

“Look, Louis…” Harry starts from the bathroom doorframe. 

Louis shakes his head and gives him the respect of looking at him properly, hopefully quelling some of the guilt Harry clearly holds. “Forget it, Harry,” he says, smiling tightly. “It’s alright.”

Harry draws in a breath to continue, but in the end he lets it out in a sigh and nods resolutely. Instead, he climbs into bed, his movements so fragile like he’s afraid to bring Louis’ wrath in like a storm. It makes Louis feel awful, upset stirring in his stomach, so passes through to the bathroom for a moment alone. This , he thinks, is why he doesn’t travel with anyone. It’s too difficult to parse through feelings and emotions that aren’t his own, to keep them safe, even from himself. He wonders if it’s too late to tell Harry he can’t take him the rest of the way, that he’ll either have to find his way home or find his way south. The thought both settles Louis’ anxious mind and revolts him. 

When he steps out after brushing his own teeth, a splash of water on his face, Harry is turned away from the bathroom door, a lump beneath the busy floral quilt. Louis’ not sure if he’s asleep or just pretending to be, but for both their sake, he says nothing and pads as quietly as possible to the nest of blankets he’s made on the floor. It’s not bad at first, stiff in a way that makes him lay flat as a board and corrects his bad posture. But after an hour, the floor seems to be applying pressure to all his joints, his bones, and he spends the better part of fifteen minutes rolling around, trying to find a position that relieves some of the discomfort. At this point, Rhoda seems like the better option, well accustomed to finding the best position for a few hours of sleep.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when Harry’s voice comes through the dark. “Louis.”

“What?” he hisses back. He sits up and punches at his pillow, hoping that elevating his head a bit might relieve the tension at the base of his neck.

“Just come up here,” Harry says. He throws back the covers and slides his hand across the cool, empty side of the bed. 

Louis stares at him, leaning back on his elbows as he considers. He doesn’t think Harry’s coming on to him, but is genuinely concerned with his comfort, his quality of sleep. He can see Harry blinking at him even in the darkness, the moon bright enough to distinguish.

“Get up here, cowboy,” Harry urges again.

This time, Louis feels himself involuntarily smile and huff a laugh of surprise, heaving himself off the floor and taking his pillow with him. He drops into bed beside Harry, a respectful distance away, suppressing his groan of relief as the mattress shapes to the contours of his body the way the floor never even tried to. His eyes close as he relaxes almost instantly, but he can feel Harry watching him, still facing him on his side.

Louis blinks his eyes open, both their heads level with one another on their pillows. For a moment, he just breathes and stares, the silence no longer tense, but once again comfortable. Tentatively, he pokes a hand from beneath the quilt and reaches out to touch the side of Harry’s neck, just an affectionate squeeze. He leaves his hand there, his thumb brushing down to his collarbone.

“I’m sorry I yelled,” Louis says, though he’s aware he didn’t. Still, to him, it feels as though he might as well have, his voice cold and defensive when he’d shut down on Harry.

Harry shakes his head immediately. His own hand lifts to wrap around Louis’ wrist, not to remove his touch, but to touch him too. “I was pushing. Prying. I would’ve done the same thing.”

Louis breathes a smile, a soft laugh. “No, you wouldn’t,” he says, calling Harry on what is clearly bullshit. “I’m just not used to talking. About anything. About myself, especially.”

“I can tell.” Harry smiles, though, his fingertips sliding down Louis’ forearm and then back up to his wrist. “Just. You know. If you want to talk, we can talk. I’m not going to judge you.”

Louis gives a last squeeze to Harry’s neck before he lets him go. “Thanks. I do appreciate it.”

Harry just nods, his smile still gentle on his face. When it doesn’t seem as though either of them is going to say anything else, Harry nudges himself forward until there’s barely a few inches between them. He makes himself small and tucks himself close to Louis’ chest, his head sharing the bottom of Louis’ pillow. There hasn’t been a time in recent memory Louis’ been so close to someone, even with past hookups, everything unattached, unemotional. He knows he should roll over, move away from Harry, make sure they both see the clear boundaries between them. He doesn’t want to delude Harry that anything will happen between them and he doesn’t want to fool himself into believing Harry is along on this trip for any other reason than to find his long lost boyfriend. He should turn away, he tells himself, again and again. Instead he lifts an arm around Harry and rubs a hand between his shoulder blades until he hears his breathing even out, until he himself falls asleep.

x

The sun is brighter at the coast - all that open space and nothing to throw shadows - and it cuts a triangle of light across Louis’ face. He tosses and turns to evade it, futile, and when he gives up, it’s with a sigh that starts at the bottom of his chest, his arms throwing the covers down his body like they’re suddenly on fire. The mattress is mostly bare, unoccupied except for himself, the sheet cool and dented from its abandoning companion. Mild panic sets in until he looks over the foot of the bed, Harry’s belongings still neatly arranged in his duffle. His backpack, however, has disappeared. 

Louis can’t remember the last time he slept in past sunrise. Normally, he’d be itching to find Harry and get back on the road, but he takes his time waking up, checking his texts, staring aimlessly around the room as he tries in earnest to keep his mind off their conversation the night prior. He can’t help but wonder if Harry woke so early to avoid him, if his plan is just to meet back at the truck and drive silently to their next destination, wherever it might be. 

An hour later, Louis rises and gets himself dressed, the crick in his neck a dull reminder of the hour or so he’d attempted on the floor. He sends a thanks out to wherever Harry is for his hospitality and insistence on sharing the bed, knowing damn well he’d be in a rotten mood all day if his neck and back had been properly thrown out. All of his clothes and toiletries get tossed back into his duffle, a stark contrast to Harry’s organized pack, ready to continue onward. 

Downstairs, breakfast service has just begun, several other guests sitting in the dining room, some hiding behind newspapers spread out before them, others engaged in sleepy, hushed conversation. The woman at the front desk smiles cheerfully at him and Louis nods a ‘good morning,’ passing on through. Though the food smells divine, tempting, Louis skips it for now, instead filling two mugs, large enough to be soup bowls, with steaming coffee. He doesn’t quite know how Harry takes his, so he fixes it with a little cream and sugar, and sneaks his way out the back before anyone can stop him. If he can’t find Harry, maybe the smell of hot coffee will draw him out. 

The grass outside is heavy and lush with morning dew, each blade pregnant with water drops and blanketed by a thin layer of fog across the grounds. The air smells like the sea, but it also smells crisp, wet, fresh with a new day that spreads hope up through the ground. Louis takes a few steps out, but there’s really only one possible route to take, the dense brush and wild weeds encroaching on the property. He takes the same path they’d walked together the night before, winding his way to the lighthouse that looks less ghostly, less frightening and formidable, than it had in the darkness. 

At the top, Louis spots Harry almost immediately, his shoulders and back to him, curls twisting in the moisture and the ocean breeze blowing them back. If he had to guess, Harry’s painting, his backpack open beside him and a few supplies scattered to his left that Louis can’t quite make out. He doesn’t want to startle him, to disturb him, so he leans against the stucco exterior of the lighthouse, sipping from his mug and admiring him. In another life, in another script where maybe this had a chance in hell, Louis would let himself feel something, take notice of the peace that fills his chest and slows his heartbeat as he watches Harry sit and create. But this is not that life, not that script, so he closes his eyes and wills it away, drowning out his rapid thoughts and longing heart with the waves that crack against the cliff foot below. 

“Is that coffee?”

When Louis opens his eyes, Harry’s turned around and looking at him curiously, sketchbook open in his lap. With the sun rising across the sea in the east, he’s backlit, all his features cast in golden shadows and his eyes a deep, mossy green. All Louis can do is nod. 

“Wasn’t sure if you’d had any yet,” Louis finally says. He pushes himself off the lighthouse and approaches slowly, carefully lowering the mug of coffee into Harry’s waiting hands. 

Harry shakes his head. “I got up before breakfast,” he tells him, muffled by the rim as he takes a sip. “Mmm… perfect. Just the way I like it. Thank you.”

Louis smiles crookedly at him, nods his head. “Can I sit?”

“Course.” Harry shuffles his backpack out of the way, inviting Louis to sit beside him. 

Tucking into himself, Louis holds his mug between his chest and thighs. It goes forgotten as he glances at Harry's journal, trying to catch sight of what he’s painted thus far. 

“I wanted to catch the sunrise,” Harry explains, nudging the sketchbook across so Louis can see. 

The page is a mix of blue-black ocean, still holding nightfall, that reflects to the sky, the only warmth a slice of light at the horizon, just beginning to introduce itself back to the world. A few clouds skate the space, add depth to the brilliance of the sun, and Louis finds himself staring. He’s seen hundreds of sunrises in his lifetime, but none like this, captured forever, never to be erased by the passing of time.

Louis smiles and lifts his mug for a sip. “You got a way with those paints.”

“These are easy,” Harry says, shrugging. “It’s not really about shapes, but color.”

“Can’t color be hard?” Louis asks, raising his eyebrows. 

Harry nods his head either way, noncommittal. “Sometimes. Not if you understand color theory.”

“‘Color theory,’” Louis echoes, chuckling. “That a thing?”

“Sure! They teach it in colleges and everything,” Harry tells him enthusiastically. “I read some books about it when I got into painting.”

Louis hums, falling quiet as his attention turns back to the ocean ahead of them. Harry doesn’t talk anymore either, but he picks up his brush, dipping it in a bit more water, and begins to paint again. Try as he might, Louis’ eyes drift back to Harry time and time again, relaxed to the bone as he watches him lay down color on the page. He makes it look so easy, like he barely has to think or consider what he’s doing, like sunrises just flow from his brush to the page with no effort at all. With early morning warming his face, the wind gentle, Louis thinks he could fall back to sleep in an instant, comforted by the atmosphere around him. 

When Harry finishes, he bends over his creation and blows on it gently to dry it, cheeks puffed. He remembers his coffee and sips from the mug, leaning back onto his free hand as he observes the coast, the sun fully risen and sparkling like a thousand diamonds off the sea. It’s blinding, but they both stare anyway, both their eyes squinted to alleviate some of the glare. A couple gulls fly low over the surface of the water, their reflection rippled and chasing them from below. 

“They know how to do coffee, huh?” Harry says, lifting the mug that, should he hold it from the bottom, would take up his entire palm. 

“Nice, right?” Louis agrees. 

They get up after that, Harry shoving his supplies back into his knapsack as Louis dusts grass off his ass, and make their way back down to the house. The back door is still open and breakfast service is continuing into brunch, so they grab biscuits and sandwiches, wrapped in heavy napkins, to take on the road with them. Louis had offered to sit down at a table, enjoy themselves properly, but Harry had been eager to get driving again, their next stop already at the forefront of his mind. 

“Where we off to?” Louis asks as he heaves their duffles over his shoulder. Harry had argued, reaching unsuccessfully for his own, but Louis had stuffed the map against his chest. 

“I’m not telling,” Harry says, the smile on his face telling that wherever it is, it won’t be disappointing. “You’ll see, cowboy.”

Louis rolls his eyes, but it’s fond, lips pulled up at the corner in a smile he doesn’t even bother to hide. “How do I know where I’m going?”

“Just get back on the 101 and I’ll let you know when we’re near,” Harry calls to him as his long legs gallop down the stairs and carry him straight to Rhoda. All excitement, all zeal. 

Louis shakes his head, letting a private breath out through his lips, and follows him down. “And I don’t even question it,” he mumbles to himself. 

x

They’re on the road for nearly four hours with one minor pitstop, a rest area having failed to come up for miles. They’d each jumped the guard rail into the brush, one standing watch while the other hurried behind a tree for a leak and a quick stretch, cursing the coffee they’d taken to go and chugged on the way. Louis starts to think Harry’s having him drive straight through to San Diego, that his next “destination” is just whatever gets him closer to the guy he’s chasing down, but just as he can feel the need for a break start to set into his lower back, his knees, Harry lifts a hand and points to a brown sign, flagging the exit. 

“This one,” he says, in a voice that sounds like he’s fighting a yawn. 

Louis has to clamp his mouth shut to resist catching it. “Humboldt Redwoods, huh.”

Harry nods, taking his feet off the dash and sitting up straighter, excitement slowly returning as he comes out of whatever daydream he’d just been in. “Can’t drive through California and not see any redwoods.”

Louis swings Rhoda down the exit and reckons Harry is right, though it’s something Louis would’ve likely overlooked and forgotten about. The long road into the park is just off the exit and Louis turns Rhoda in, immediately shrouded in dappled sunlight by the trees that lead the way. Louis rolls down the windows more, lets an arm hang out as fresh, clean air rushes in, wakes them up and grounds them back to the natural world around them. 

“There’s even a tree you can drive through,” Harry says, his grin wide and begging for Louis to crack a similar one. 

So Louis does. Because it’s infectious, because it stirs something in the bottom of Louis’ chest that stretches its fingers to his stomach and turns it right over. “We’ll see about that.”

In the end, they end up parking near a popular trailhead and decide to hike their way in, both of them on the same page when it comes to experiencing on foot versus speeding by and missing the fine details of the forest. Harry takes his backpack with him, but Louis travels empty handed, the tips of his fingers hiding in the pockets of his jeans as they walk.

The shade of the forest raises goosebumps on Louis’ arms, much cooler here than it had been on the highway. Every now and then, he catches a patch of sunlight that feels less burning hot than it does a gentle kiss that warms him straight through. It’s an easy hike, most of the trail paved, and they pass some runners, a few families pushing double wide strollers. It’s not as private and remote as Cape Flattery had been, but the wonder on everyone’s face knits them together with camaraderie. 

In Rockefeller Forest, they come across the Founder Tree first, so massive that from far away, Louis would have sworn it was a collection of smaller trees. It’s circumference must be the length of Rhoda, rocketing skyward in a grand display Louis’ never seen from a tree before. His head is tilted all the way back on his shoulders to see the top and even then, he’s not sure he can with the perspective. When he sets his head right again, Harry’s stepped to the base of the tree, his arms comically thrown around barely a fraction of it in a hug. 

“C’mere,” Harry beckons, waving Louis over. 

Louis raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“Hug her,” Harry insists. He grabs Louis’ wrist and tugs him right in, his arms returning to their previous spot as he presses against the tree, cheek to bark. 

Louis never thought he’d be a tree hugger in his life, but Harry’s eyes are admonishing, so Louis rolls his own and mimics Harry’s position. The bark is tough, old and scratchy, but pleasantly warm in places from the sun that’s broken through the canopy overhead. Louis feels a little silly, but it’s not much to pay attention to when Harry’s face is inches away from his own, eyes closed with a peaceful smile on his lips. It’s then that Louis realizes that Harry doesn’t only make him feel , but that Louis kind of wants to kiss him too. 

Harry’s eyes open slowly, smile never slipping. “If you listen hard enough, you can hear her breathe.”

And Louis knows that’s not true, that no matter how hard one tries to hear the life in the trees, the grass, the flowers, that it can’t be heard. But when the breeze blows through the forest, shakes the leaves on surrounding foliage just right, when Harry stares at him, soft and tranquil, like he’s the only thing Harry can see, Louis kind of believes him. Louis closes his own eyes and listens. To the forest around him, to Harry breathing, to his own heart that feels out of control and placid all at once. 

When Louis opens his eyes, Harry is gone, but he’s not far, turning circles just behind him as he stares at the treetops above. 

“Gonna make yourself dizzy,” Louis calls to him through a chuckle.

Sure enough, when Harry stops and looks back at him, he stumbles sideways a step, arms out to catch his balance. It doesn’t hinder his joy for a second. “Take a photo with me?”

It’s a simple request, but something Louis’ hardly done in the decade he’s been on the road. His phone’s camera has been busted a long time and he’s never had any of his fleeting hookups request any sort of photographic evidence of their time together. Louis’ initial impulse is to say no, but his track record with Harry is proving otherwise. 

“Alright,” Louis agrees, his reluctance nowhere near putting Harry off. 

He expects Harry to set up some sort of timer on his phone, but instead he digs inside his backpack and comes up with a Polaroid camera. It makes perfect sense once Louis sees it; Harry’s far too cool, too artistic and aesthetic to rely on something as common and impersonal as a quick snap on his phone. 

“Excuse me!” Harry flags down a passing hiker, a young woman in her 20s, shaking the camera. “Would you mind taking a photo of us?”

She cheerfully agrees, sending Harry running back to Louis lest he waste too much of her time. Backing up to get as much of the tree in frame, she gestures for them to stand closer together. Louis budges in, their arms touching, but Harry takes it further, settling his around Louis’ shoulders, his hand hanging down by Louis’ chest. Their hips touch like this, the tops of their thighs, and Louis makes a split second decision to loop his arm around Harry’s waist, hand clutching at his t-shirt. Harry doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even seem to notice Louis’ placement, so Louis faces forward and offers up a smile, one that looks as genuine as it feels, his eyes crinkled up against the sun, but mostly from happiness. 

The girl snaps the picture and delivers both the camera and the photo back to Harry’s hands safely. “Cute,” she comments, smiling. 

Louis feels the flush creep to his cheeks. He tries to hide it by instead looking over Harry’s shoulder at the photo, slowly developing as if life is being breathed into the film. Try as he might, Louis can’t deny it. They do look cute, Harry a few inches taller, pressed intimately together side by side, less friends than… what? Louis clears his throat and takes a step away. 

“Keep exploring?” he suggests. 

Harry tucks the camera back into his knapsack, the photo into his journal, nodding with a dopey look on his face that Louis can’t figure out. “Yeah, let’s go a little further.”

They continue on the path they’d taken on their way in, stopping at nearly every gentle giant they pass just to take in their sheer size, the improbability of something living so long, growing so large, untouched by man or Mother Nature’s wrath. Each one, Louis can’t help but touch, connecting to the earth. 

“Fifty Louies,” Harry says from beside him. 

Louis’ eyebrows furrow, confused. “What are you on about?”

“I think it’d take fifty of you to reach the top,” Harry explains, pointing up. 

Louis snorts, amused by Harry’s quirky sense of humor and the way he perceives and processes the world around him. The trees are massive, but Louis himself hadn’t been calculating how many Harries could fit into a tree, bottom to top. Still, it’s one of those things that makes Louis smile, even minutes later when Harry’s forgotten and walked a few paces forward, rambling about the forest and what he’d read about it on their way there. 

They take the walk back to the car slower, several other hikers passing them, neither of them ready to fold back into their seats. Louis’ not sure where they’re stopping for the night, curious if Harry’s got any other places that he’d mapped out this morning. It’s only late afternoon and Louis thinks he’s got another few hours in him to drive before he waves his white flag and calls exhaustion. 

“You have another place in mind on your day tour?” Louis jokes as he glances sideways at Harry. 

Harry huffs a laugh, but shakes his head. “No, actually. But I can look?”

Louis nods, leaning at an awkward angle to try to look at Harry’s search results. The screen comes in and out of focus with the change in sunlight as they proceed down the trail. 

“Oh, Louis!” Harry suddenly yells, stopping right in the middle of the path. “Fort Bragg! The Glass Beach! We have to go! Can we?!”

Louis doesn’t know anything about Fort Bragg or the beach Harry’s talking about, but he’s nodding before it fully registers. “How far?”

“Barely two hours,” Harry tells him as he punches it into the navigation app. When he looks up, his lips are turned down in mild disappointment. “Is that too far?”

Louis shakes his head, trying to rouse Harry with a smile of his own. “Nah. And we probably have a better chance of finding a place for the night there.”

Harry nods, shoulders dropping in relief, and buries himself in a new search. “Loads of places. Pretty inexpensive.”

Louis makes a sound in his throat of acknowledgement just as Rhoda comes back into view. He digs his keys out of his pocket as they cross the lot back to the truck. “What’s this beach all about?”

“There’s a beach there that’s basically all sea glass. I think they used to dump garbage there, so all the bottles and stuff have broken and turned to sea glass,” Harry explains, waiting for Louis to unlock Rhoda and stretch across to the passenger side to pull the lock up for him. “It’s beautiful. The top thing to do there.”

“Then we’ve gotta do it,” Louis says as he starts the truck, grin hanging on his lips. “Ready to play navigator then?”

“Born ready,” Harry answers, sending his laughter out the window as they cruise back towards the 101. 

x

Compared to the miles behind them, the drive to Fort Bragg feels like a blink. Late afternoon seeps into the cab, just shy of too warm, and the breeze that crosses window to window tosses their hair in their eyes, around their faces. They ride in pleasant silence, the radio humming softly in the background as they speed down the coast, and when Louis looks over, Harry’s smiling to himself, a private happiness born from whatever’s going on in his head. Louis likes to think it has something to do with him, or at the very least, this adventure they’ve embarked on together, chosen to see through to San Diego. 

The beach is in view as soon as they pull off the highway and Louis can hardly tell where the water ends and the sand begins, all glittering under the heat and evening sun. They pile out of the truck and head down, Harry’s trusty knapsack their third companion and no one else in plain view. It’s only when they get closer that Louis understands what Harry had been talking about. The beach isn’t sand at all, but thousands - millions - of pieces of glass, all gently rounded by the roll and pull of the ocean. It throws long streaks of reflected color up their legs as they remove their boots and roll their jeans, just as they had in Ocean Shores. 

“There’s not like, sharp pieces, right?” Louis asks warily. 

Harry shakes his head, bending down to sort through little pieces of glass right by his feet. “There shouldn’t be. It’s all been worked by the ocean,” he says. “Just be careful.”

It’s not quite as comfortable as walking on sand and every few steps, Louis winces, the glass more like pebbles that find the tender spots of his feet. He considers putting his boots back on, but it’s worth it when he gets down to the water, the sea rushing up to embrace his ankles and wash away the day’s heat. Louis stands there and breathes, watching the sun crawl for the horizon, grateful in a way he hasn’t been in years for all he’s been able to see and experience along the way. They’ve covered a lot of ground in the few days since they left Seattle, but Harry’s made him really look at his surroundings, open his eyes and appreciate the natural beauty in front of them. Busy swimming through his own thoughts, he doesn’t notice Harry’s come to stand beside him, the back of his hand brushing Louis’.

“You look like you’ve loads on your mind,” Harry says, but his voice is light, teasing. 

He’s not wrong, though, and Louis chuckles, shrugs his shoulders as he lets out his breath in a soft sigh. “Just thinking about life. How you leave home one day and then years later, you’re standing on a glass beach with a stranger. How you get from A to B.”

“I’m not a stranger, though,” Harry defends, leaning sideways until his shoulder meets Louis’. “Not anymore. Not really.”

Louis smiles. They don’t know much about each other, but Harry isn’t wrong about that either. “A glass beach with a friend,” he amends.

“Better,” Harry says, his returning smile touching his eyes. 

They move a few paces back, safe from the ocean’s best attempts at reaching them, and sit down, side by side. Harry’s close, but not too close, and Louis digs his feet into the pebbles and glass, sending them rolling when he wiggles his toes.

“Where else have you been?” Harry asks, holding a handful of glass and letting them slip one by one from his grasp. “Besides Montana.”

Louis sighs, though it’s not from an unwillingness to answer, but rather where to start. “I stayed close to the coast for a while. The east coast. Went down to the Carolinas, then Florida, then back up. Reckon I kinda did a zigzag ‘til I got here,” he chuckles. 

Harry doesn’t say anything, just makes a noise to indicate he’s listening, watching, waiting for Louis to divulge more on his own terms. Louis wonders if he’s too nervous to ask more after he’d shut down on Harry at the lighthouse. 

“It was tough at first. I didn’t know how to do much. The most I’d ever really done is fish here and there or work on my truck a bit. Nothing major, though,” Louis continues, shrugging. He’s not sure what Harry’s interested in hearing and he’s not sure how much he’s willing to tell. “People take advantage too, you know? You finish the work and they pay you half. Or not at all. Say you didn’t do it right or it looks bad so they don’t have to pay up.”

When he doesn’t continue, Harry shifts, absorbing the last of the distance between them. His head finds Louis’ shoulder as they sit there, a warm, comfortable weight. “What did you do first?” Harry asks. 

“Worked on a fishing boat for a little while, actually. I figured I knew how to do that much, but. Turns out fishing in your backyard pond is a lot different than fishing out on the ocean,” Louis tells him, a hint of amusement in his voice. “It’s hard work, hauling the lines and the nets. The company is kinda rough too, but I got used to the guys. Mostly old fellas. I liked it alright, but it’s dangerous shit too, you know? Started to hear one too many stories about boats capsizing and decided I didn’t wanna die on the water.” He pauses. “Dramatic, I know. But it does happen.”

“Well, I’m glad it didn’t happen to you,” Harry says, his head moving to instead rest his chin on Louis’ shoulder. Louis can feel his eyes on him, an inch away, but before he can say or do anything, Harry lays his cheek back in its previous place. “Then what?”

“Ah, dunno. Did a stint here and there in a garage. You know, easy stuff. Changing tires, oil changes, whatever. And then I started to pick up ads in the local paper. Wherever I was. People needing their houses painted or garden beds laid. That kinda stuff,” Louis answers. He’s heavily distracted by Harry’s head, his breath that catches the edge of his jaw now and again. 

Harry wraps an arm around Louis’, like he’s burrowing himself closer, and it’s then that Louis realizes the temperature has dropped with the sun. “You cold? Want my jacket?” 

He’s shrugging out of it before Harry can answer one way or the other, tucking it around his broad shoulders. The sleeves would probably be halfway up Harry’s forearms, but at least it provides a bit of shelter from the breeze. 

“Those were the people that didn’t pay you then?” Harry asks, circling back to their conversation. 

Louis shrugs, a memory of the past. “Some of them. It wasn’t even about the money. I mean, it was, it sucked not getting paid, but the worst part was always that I did do it right. I don’t half ass my jobs. I do good work, even if it takes me a bit longer.”

When he glances over at Harry, he’s frowning, and Louis shakes his head. “Ohhh no. No, don’t do that. Nothing to be sad about. Or pity me for. I’ve done fine.”

“It’s just shitty. That some people are so rude. Heartless. They stole from you,” Harry says indignantly. 

Louis’ never thought about it that way, but Harry has a point; they did steal labor from him. “It was years ago anyway now,” Louis tells him, shrugging. “Doesn’t matter. I got better at spotting those kinds of people.”

Harry seems to relax then, pacificed that it’s at least not happening any longer. Even with his jacket, he shuffles close again, his head returning to Louis’ shoulder. When the wind blows off the surface of the sea, Harry’s curls dance back and forth along Louis’ neck, his ear, sending a parade of shivers from his nape down his spine. He shouldn’t, Louis knows, but he does it anyway, his arm settling around Harry’s shoulders, drawing him in more intimately against his side. It’s a quiet moment, just between them, but Louis feels like there’s a boulder growing in the pit of his stomach, weighing heavier with each passing minute. In a few days, a week, sometime in the near and impending future, he will be alone again. 

When Louis glances down, a piece of glass catches the last of the day’s light, tossing tiny globes of sea foam green against his jeans. It’s the same color of Harry’s eyes at dawn, in sunshine, when his laughter reaches his belly, so Louis picks it up and rolls it in his palm, tucks it into his pocket for safe keeping. 

The day will come when he’s alone, but at least he will always have this.

x

Their motel stay in Fort Bragg is surprisingly comfortable in comparison to the amenities in Ocean Shores. The last vacancy available at the Beachcomber Motel is a single bed room, but there’s a pull out sofa that Louis claims. It turns out to be more comfortable than the lumpy mattress he’d slept on nights ago, firm in a way that straightens out his spine and offers some much needed support. At least they each have their own space, Louis thinks as he lays there later, thankful he can set his thoughts to rest for the night knowing he won’t have to battle his conflicted mind while laying side by side with Harry. In fact, it’s one of the better sleeps he’s had, knocking out after a long shower and a pizza Harry had delivered in the interim. They’d both been exhausted from the sun, the long drive down to Fort Bragg, so they’d hardly spoken, Louis flipping around the limited channels until his eyes drooped. Harry had sketched for thirty seconds and then fallen asleep with his journal across his chest. 

They hit the road early the following morning, the sun just bringing dawn to the sky, but don’t make it much further than Mendocino before stopping for coffee and a bite to eat. Fiddleheads Café is the first place that blinks its ‘open’ sign at them, so Louis pulls Rhoda to the side of the street. It’s a cute little place with a limited menu, both of them deciding on a traditional breakfast of eggs, toast, and bacon, endless coffee sweetening the deal. A bulletin board near the entrance catches Louis’ eye while he’s taking his first sip off his mug. 

“I’ll be right back,” he tells Harry as he stands to go have a look. 

When Louis had first been starting out, he’d often scoured newspapers and boards like these for local jobs that he could complete and make a quick buck. It’s just habit now to browse, see if there’s anything he could complete in a day or two. He’s still got plenty of cash saved, but it never hurts to replenish his rainy day stash as he goes. There isn’t much here, mostly ads for businesses in the area, but he does see a small help wanted flyer pinned under another sheet advertising the farmer’s market. It’s less a full page than it is a note card, just a request for a set of capable hands to help paint a beach house and direction to call Beth . Louis takes it down and brings it back to the table with him, already memorizing the phone number. 

“Whatcha got there?” Harry inquires curiously. 

Louis holds up the index card between two fingers. “A job.”

“A job?” Harry looks puzzled, eyebrows furrowing. 

“Someone needs a house painted,” Louis explains, sliding the card over to Harry. “I can paint houses.”

Harry reads over the card in a flash. “So we’re stopping?”

Louis can feel his jaw tighten. Naturally, he thinks, Harry has a problem with spending a few days here in Mendocino. It delays him from getting down to San Diego faster than he’d like, another day his mystery love from years past is living without him. What a shame Louis’ preventing their reunion. 

“Yeah, is that an issue?” Louis bites. “I’m sure your boyfriend will still be there.”

Harry frowns and Louis instantly regrets his tone, his assumptions. “Of course not. I was just asking so I could scope out some places to paint,” Harry says softly, cautiously. 

Louis feels his shoulders physically drop, the fight bleeding out of him. “Oh. Yeah. I’m sure there’s loads of places. Real beachy here.”

“Mmm,” Harry murmurs, but he’s looking out the window, a frown still pulling at his features. 

Louis should apologize, he knows he should, but he can’t find it in himself to do so. Apologizing would mean explaining himself, why he’d snapped so suddenly, and Louis doesn’t feel like now is the time to have that conversation. In fact, never sounds real good right about then. Harry doesn’t need to know about his mixed up feelings or attraction or whatever it is that settles under his breast bone when he’s close to him. 

Breakfast passes in relative silence, more stiff and awkward than Louis would like, but not the worst he’s ever experienced. Louis volunteers to pay the tab and Harry lets him, the first indication that Harry must really not want to speak to him if he’s backing down without a spat over who’s paying for what. With the cash set at the edge of the table, Harry heads back out to the truck, backpack slung over one shoulder. Louis watches him go and then sighs, digging his phone out of his front pocket to make that call to Beth. He can see Harry sitting inside Rhoda from his window seat and he watches him, the way his face looks sullen, not at all reminiscent of his usual brightness. 

“Hello?” 

Louis startles when a woman’s voice answers down the line, a bit frail. 

“Hi there,” Louis says. “My name is Louis Tomlinson. I’m actually at Fiddleheads and saw that you’re looking for help painting your house?” 

“Oh yes! Yes! We’ve been looking for a handyman because the professionals around here are charging an arm and a leg,” she explains. Louis smiles listening to her; she sounds a lot like his own grandma, from what he can remember. 

“Well, how about I only charge you an arm and we’ll get that house painted?” Louis suggests. 

The woman’s laugh is warm, happy, and it lifts Louis’ spirits somewhat. “You have yourself a deal. I’m out on Hesser Drive. Can’t miss me.”

Louis takes down the address on the opposite side of the card. “See you this afternoon.”

He spends another five minutes swallowing his pride down with his coffee, long since gone cold, before he gets up and makes his way outside to Rhoda. Harry’s dug out an old paperback and has started to read, apparently determined to ignore Louis. Turning to the window, Louis rolls his eyes to himself. 

“Gonna get carsick reading,” he points out. 

Harry barely moves. “Never have before.”

Louis stares at him, at a loss for what else to say, so he starts the truck and turns back out to Main Street. The silence is palpable, uncomfortable in a way it's never been before, and Louis finds himself drumming his fingers on the steering wheel just to break it. He’s too rigid to even turn on the radio. 

Beth’s house is less of a house and more of a cottage when it comes down to it. It’s right across from the beach on Hesser Drive and he can tell while it’s weathered now, it had once been a shade of bright coral pink, white shutters to either side of its inviting windows. There’s some sea grass that’s gone long in the front, a couple of bushes of tiny pink roses, and Louis can see it’s been well cared for up until this point. It’s exactly what he imagines a quintessential beach home should be, even as worn as it looks. They pull in the driveway, just sand and rocks, and only then does Harry look up, smiling just slightly, unable to help himself. 

They both climb out, but don’t even make it to the door before a stylish round woman steps outside, her hair in tight, silver curls as she waves to them. “Which one of you is Louis?” she asks. 

Louis raises his hand with a sheepish tip of his head. “That’d be me.”

“And you brought help!” Beth says enthusiastically. 

Louis looks over at Harry and then shakes his head. “Just me. I think this one -“

“I can help,” Harry interrupts cheerfully, though Beth misses the scathing look that’s thrown Louis’ way. 

She invites them both into the house, decorated with all the usual beach charm. There are old paintings of ships and framed sand dollars, the curtains in the windows decorated with seashells. They take a seat at the kitchen table, an antique with years of use, and Beth fixes them each a glass of lemonade, puts out a plate of crackers, before she gets down to business. 

“I’d like to keep the color the same,” she tells Louis, passing him an old paint chip with coastal coral printed on it. “So you’ll have to pick up paint at the hardware store. Both the pink and maybe another quart of white for the shutters. Might as well give them a fresh coat while we’re at it.”

Louis nods and keeps the paint chip with the original note card. “Do you have supplies or should we get those too? Rollers, paint brushes?” he asks. 

“There might be a thing or two in the shed, but might be wise to just buy new,” Beth says. She gets up to get the key, passing it to Louis for safe keeping. “Feel free to have a look around. There’s a ladder in there too.”

After, Harry engages her in conversation about the house, about Mendocino. They learn she’s lived here her whole life, that she and her husband had bought the little house decades ago and raised two boys here. Her husband passed away nearly five years ago and both her boys had moved away, one down in Los Angeles and the other in Chicago. With age hot on her heels and no one around to help with maintenance, the house had started to slip over the years. Beth asks about them, about where they’re from, and Harry answers vaguely, distracting her with talk of his paintings and then about those in her house that look like they were done with a careful hand and technical knowledge of ships. 

“More lemonade, boys?” she asks when Louis’ finished his glass. 

He shakes his head. “I think I’ll get to the hardware store, actually. Get started this afternoon. But thank you for the drink. And the snack.” He pauses. “Harry, are you coming with?”

Harry nods, but doesn’t verbally answer him. He says goodbye for now to Beth and heads out to the truck while Louis collects the cash to pick up supplies. Beth holds onto Louis’ hand as they both watch him go, her expression intuitive. 

“Whatever is going on between you two, give him time,” she says, patting Louis’ hand. 

Louis smiles wryly, but shakes his head. “Nothing going on. Just a bit travel weary.”

“Huh,” she clucks, unconvinced. 

Louis stares out the screen door at Harry, already back in the front seat, slumped down stormily. Beth hadn’t been wrong to assume and he sincerely hopes she’s right, that Harry will come around by the time night falls. With a heavy sigh, he heads back out into the sunshine, climbing back into Rhoda without another word. 

He drives them back into town and parks in front of the little hardware store, compact, but loaded corner to corner with everything the locals might need. Harry gets out with him, but mumbles something about checking out the shops, tells Louis not to bother waiting for him. On the sidewalk, Louis watches him go until he can hardly see him anymore, the knot in his stomach pulling tighter. He curses his own jealousy, his sharp tongue, and hopes that there’s a way out of this for them. Eventually, he turns to head inside and decides to heed Beth’s advice, give Harry the space and time he clearly needs.

Inside, Louis spends more time than he intends just wandering. He walks up and down the aisles without really seeing anything he’s looking at, distracted by his guilt. Only when he reaches the paint counter does he seem to snap out of it, digging the chip from his pocket and requesting a couple gallons. He picks up the rest of the supplies while he waits for the paint to mix, his mind drifting back to Harry and whether he’ll be back at the truck when Louis finishes or if he’s gone for the day. It’s then that Louis realizes Harry could leave at any time, that there’s nothing tethering him to Louis. His stomach doesn’t feel like it can sink any lower, headed for his toes. 

When Louis steps back out to the sidewalk, Harry’s nowhere to be found. He puts the cans of paint in the bed of the truck and lingers for another ten minutes, but in the end it’s clear Harry isn’t returning. With a deep frown, he starts Rhoda up and turns back towards Hesser Drive, alone, hopeful Harry will turn up eventually. He’s got Louis’ number in any case, if he needs him, if he needs a ride. 

Beth is watering the roses when he pulls back into the driveway and she waves at him cheerfully. “Any problems with the paint?” she calls. 

Louis shakes his head as he lifts the cans and supplies from the truck. “Not at all. Should hopefully be enough and a little extra for any future touch ups.”

Her eyes flash back to Rhoda, seemingly looking for Louis’ lost companion, but smiles instead, patting his arm on her way back into the house. “Holler if you need anything.”

Louis sets all the supplies in the yard and takes a moment just staring at the little house, his hands resting on his hips as he determines where to start. He spends the first hour hosing down the house in lieu of a power washer, getting off the worst of the dried on sand and grit. Even in late afternoon, the sun beats down on him, a stream of sweat collecting and sliding down his spine. By the time he’s moved on to opening the can of primer, he’s officially tossed his shirt into the open driver’s side window of Rhoda. He’ll regret it later when his shoulders are burned, but it’s a hell of a lot better than wearing a damp cotton shirt while he works, boiling from the inside out. At least California doesn’t seem to know humidity.

There’s an old radio in the shed along with the ladder, so Louis sets classic rock as his soundtrack when he gets to painting. It has a therapeutic effect on him, lost in the details as he drags his brush precisely around the windows, applying an even, clean layer. Though his mind had been racked with regret and absorbed by Harry, the task keeps him focused, the music distracting. Years of efficiency makes the work quick and by the time the shadows grow long in the yard, the sky starting to lose its bright blue hue and invite the spectrum of sundown, he’s got the primer finished and one side of the house painted, winking back at him in bright coral. His shoulders feel tight with too much sun and his lower back aches, so Louis calls this day done, figures he’ll finish up the rest tomorrow. 

As he’s pressing the lid down on the can of paint, Louis notices he’s got an audience of one. At some point, Harry’s walked himself down Hesser Drive, his arms folded across his chest with his sketchbook tucked under them. Louis’ not sure if he’s still angry with him, silent as he stares up from the base of the ladder, but his expression doesn’t read as such. Harry’s face is relaxed, his eyes softer as he openly observes Louis. How long he’s been standing there, Louis has no idea, but he lets him watch a moment longer, lets him get an eyeful of his upper body on display, fit with years of work.

“Found your way back?” Louis asks eventually as he starts climbing back down.

Harry doesn’t say anything at first, just nods, but he speaks up a moment later. “It’s not too difficult to find your way around. And the walk was nice.”

Louis makes a noise of acknowledgement, but doesn’t say much else. He wants to ask if they’re cool, press Harry to forgive him, but he stops himself, remembers his conversation with Beth this afternoon. Harry will come around when he’s ready to.

Apparently the time is now, though, because he seems on the precipice of words several times, like he’s got so much to tell Louis and no idea how to begin. He follows just behind Louis as he circles the property, putting the paint and supplies back in the shed for tomorrow.

“There was a farmer’s market,” Harry says, his feet tracing Louis’ steps.

Louis tosses the ladder over his shoulder, the last bit of equipment to put back for safekeeping. “Oh?”

“I sold a few of my sketches,” Harry continues. “You know, to help out.”

That makes Louis stop in his tracks, turning awkwardly with the ladder to stare at him. “I don’t need help, Harry. I’m fine. I just saw an opportunity and took it.”

“No, I know you don’t, I just thought -” Harry stops himself short, looking away towards the ocean across the street, defeated.

Louis instantly feels terrible, chastises himself for being so quick to jump to conclusions. It’s what got himself into this mess to begin with. He closes his eyes and sets the ladder down, approaching Harry slowly. “I’m sorry. That’s awesome you sold some stuff. Told you you’re talented. No brainer everyone wants something from you,” he says, reaching a hand forward for Harry’s shoulder. “And I’m sorry about earlier too. I think we just got off on the wrong foot today.”

Harry nods, his eyes catching Louis’ again. “It’s okay. I’m sorry too.”

Louis smiles, squeezes his fingers over Harry’s shoulder. He can’t help himself, the way his thumb brushes the side of his neck with affection. “Forgiven. And forgotten.”

They jump apart when the screen door slams, Beth bustling out to have a look at the house. “Oh good! You two all settled then?” she asks, eyes twinkling knowingly.

Louis coughs, embarrassed, and instead turns to put the ladder away in the shed. “What do you think?” he calls over his shoulder, referencing the house.

“Beautiful! Haven’t seen the color so bright in years,” Beth answers happily. “Won’t you stay for dinner?”

Louis has half a mind to say no, doesn’t want to impose, but both Beth and Harry look so hopeful that he nods in the end. He reaches back into Rhoda to retrieve his shirt. “Alright. That’d be very kind, Beth. Thank you.”

“Oh, no bother! Can’t remember the last time I sat down to dinner with company,” she says, rushing back to the house and disappearing inside. Louis can smell something cooking, but has no idea what it is, can’t put his finger on the scent.

“She’s a character, isn’t she?” Harry laughs from the other side of the truck, stowing his backpack back in the front seat.

Louis nods, smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “And still sharp. You’d be surprised.”

Dinner ends up being a chicken casserole that Louis deems suspect based on how it looks, but ends up creamy and cheesy and flavorful. Both he and Harry help themselves to two servings, fresh salad piled on the side to cut some of the richness. Beth keeps their glasses full of lemonade and the conversation is easy, Louis mostly silent, but attentive, as Harry talks about where they’ve been so far, what he both painted and sold today. At some point between dinner and dessert, Harry’s foot bumps his beneath the table. Louis jerks his foot back an inch, but a second later, Harry’s is right there all over again. It stays through dessert and coffee, a chocolate cream pie that’s piled with homemade whipped cream. Louis barely tastes the chocolate, distracted by the single point in which he’s touching Harry.

When darkness has truly fallen, the streetlights on outside, Louis and Harry excuse themselves and promise to be back bright and early tomorrow. They find a motel in town, this one outfitted properly with two queen beds, and Harry insists on paying with his earnings from the farmer’s market. It makes the pride flare in Louis’ chest, but he lets him, the desire to keep the peace winning out. Harry looks pleased with himself, like he’s contributed something, even though he has been all along. It’s endearing, makes Louis smile the whole time they walk from the motel office to their room. 

Louis takes a shower that he intends to be long, but ends up just lengthy enough to wash himself down and scrub the salt and sand from his hair, exhausted. The water heats his burnt shoulders and it takes a minute for the pain to subside, for him to get used to the way the spray irritates his skin. It’s the first thing Harry notices when he steps back out into the room and he frowns.

“Do you want something for that?” Harry asks, gesturing. 

Louis’ eyebrows pull together. “Like what?”

Harry doesn’t answer and instead digs around in his duffle, producing a small green bottle. He hands it to Louis.

“Of all the shit you could pack, you remembered to bring aloe vera?” Louis snorts, amused. He opens it anyway, pouring some into his palm to rub across his shoulders, mostly to appease Harry. It’s not something Louis would buy for himself, far more likely to just deal with the burn, but he has to admit that it cools his skin and allows the pain to subside. 

“It’s the Sunshine State! I figured I’d burn eventually!” Harry defends. Louis can feel Harry watching as he struggles to get it down the top of his back, seemingly searching for the courage to pipe up again. “Do you want help?”

Louis pauses, sitting there dumbly with the bottle still in his hand. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to be gracious and say yes or keep them both in line and say no, but nods before his brain can catch up to his body, on autopilot. Harry stands and takes the aloe from him, their fingers making contact unnecessarily that charges the whole room and makes it feel stifling and exciting at the same time. The gel melts into his hot skin, but all Louis can concentrate on are the soft pads of Harry’s fingertips descending down his spine, no angry pink patch of skin unattended. Louis can’t even hear either of them breathing, either sipping air so shallowly it doesn’t make a sound or holding it altogether. 

Even when Louis’ skin feels sticky and tacky to the touch, Harry doesn’t stop, his thumbs kneading to the nape of his neck. There is no aloe involved now, just Harry’s desire to touch him and Louis complicit in it all. He closes his eyes and leans into Harry’s hands that somehow feel strong and delicate at the same time. Capable comes to Louis’ mind, freely wandering into territory he hasn’t allowed himself. He thinks of Harry’s hands on his chest, his stomach, how they’d feel clutching at his shoulders, his back, his ass in moments of desperation and intense pleasure. He thinks of how his touch would soften after, featherlight and barely there, drifting up Louis’ arm or maybe across his collarbone. He thinks of how Harry would sound, if he’d be breathy and as silent as he is now or if he’d fill the room floor to ceiling with sounds Louis would never scrub clean from his mind. It all makes him ache with want, deep in his gut.

Louis’ eyes spring open and he sucks in a breath like he’s just been thrown back into his life, like he’s been drifting in purgatory the last minute, two minutes, however long it’s been. He clears his throat. “Thanks. That feels loads better,” he says as he jerks away just enough to put some distance between them.

Harry’s staring at his hands like they’re not attached to his body, like he has no idea what they’ve been doing. There’s a frown forming, Louis can tell, but Harry gets it under control and just nods. “Of course. Nothing worse than sunburn.”

They get into bed after, Harry in his, Louis across the room, both purposely lying with their backs to one another. Louis stares at the peeling wallpaper in the room, fidgeting to tear it just to give his restless energy somewhere to go. The more he thinks about what just happened the more he wonders if he’d just made it up, if Harry really had just been lending a helping hand and Louis’ own fantasy had turned it into something it wasn’t. He convinces himself of this, beats himself up in his head for being so touch starved, but then he hears Harry tossing and turning, rustling his bed covers, and thinks maybe he’s not crazy, maybe it really did happen as it had felt.

In the end, he comes to no resolution, dropping into a fitful sleep that twists him in his sheets and makes him dream of a green eyed man falling through his fingers.

x

If at all possible, the next morning looks even hotter, heavy, heat laden fog hiding the sun as it breaks the horizon. Sleep evades him, has been for an hour or two, so Louis hauls himself up to get a jump on the day, quietly dressing at the foot of his bed. His burned shoulders feel tight, but the aloe’s done its job, drawing the pain right out. Harry seems dead asleep, but then he turns over, rubbing his sleepy eyes and mumbling. 

“Hm?” Louis murmurs, unable to make out what he’s saying. 

A yawn takes over Harry’s whole face. “Sunscreen. It’s in my bag. Take it.”

As confused and tense as Louis had felt the evening before, he can’t help but smile to himself, Harry’s concern running deeper than any awkward moment that transpired between them. It feels a bit like an invasion of privacy, squatting down and digging through Harry’s duffle, but he does anyway under his instruction. The first thing he comes in contact with is a tube of lube and he quickly shoves it to the bottom of Harry’s bag, blushing furiously. He’s thankful for the curtains mostly drawn, safe under the cover of darkness. 

“Stay,” Louis mumbles from where he is. When he finally finds the sunscreen, he jumps away from Harry’s bag. “Sleep a while longer. Come meet me later.”

Harry turns his head 90 degrees to his body to look down the bed at Louis. His smile is sleepy, appreciative. “Okay. Just don’t leave without me,” he whispers. 

“Would never,” Louis promises, his heart twisting. 

He thinks about Harry the whole drive over to Beth’s, but that’s nothing new. Harry seems to be the last thing he thinks of when he falls asleep and the first his mind lands on in the morning, occupying all the spaces in between. There’s a lightness to Louis that hadn’t existed yesterday, the tension in his body unfurled, crushed under their ongoing spat. Louis knows it shouldn’t have mattered whether Harry was speaking to him or not, that they should barely be friends, but he’s resigned himself that it does matter. That he wants Harry to talk to him morning, noon, night, educate him on all the little things about the world he doesn’t know and small talk with him too. 

When he arrives at Beth’s, the property is quiet, just himself and the mist that rolls off the surface of the ocean. He does his best to maintain that silence, trying not to rattle the paint cans or thump the ladder too loudly against the ground when he retrieves it. He starts with the shutters he’d taken off the house yesterday, giving them a couple coats of bright white that brings them back to their former glory. It’s almost relaxing, being alone and painting, and while he knows it’s not really like what Harry does, he thinks it’s similar enough that he understands why Harry loves it so much. 

Just over an hour later, as he’s setting the ladder sturdy against the house, he hears a disturbance in the gravel and spots Harry walking up Hesser Drive. He lifts a hand to greet him and a moment later, hears the screen door slam as Beth bustles out with a tray in her hands, piled with homemade breakfast sandwiches and hand squeezed orange juice on a tray. Louis can’t remember the last time anyone cared so much for his well being and now he has two people doing so. 

“This is hard work you’re up to. Can’t have you fainting on an empty stomach,” she says.

“What hard work is Harry doing?” Louis jokes, grinning lazily.

Harry smacks him across the arm as he reaches for a sandwich, but there’s no heat behind it and Beth watches them, her lips in a satisfied smile. They’re interacting again, teasing one another, a far cry from avoiding each other entirely yesterday. 

Full up, Louis sets himself back to work, dragging a can of paint up the ladder with him. Today should be easy, he thinks, just the color left to lay down, the shutters waiting for a coat of crisp white. Harry doesn’t help, but this time he stays, sitting on the front lawn. He works on a little scene that doesn’t seem to reflect any of their surroundings, but is born from something in his mind, Louis with an aerial view atop the ladder. When the fog burns off, gets too hot to stand, Louis ditches his shirt again, but digs the tube of sunscreen from his back pocket, applies it to himself messily before Harry can offer his assistance the way he had the night prior. It does help, reflects some of the heat off his shoulders and makes the job ahead more bearable.

Every now and again, Louis takes a break, leaning his hip into the ladder as he sips some water. He glances down to see Harry’s progress in his journal, the tiny, colorful sailboats he’s laying down on the page, but often catches him staring up at him instead, like he’s been watching him for minutes at a time and Louis’ only just noticed. The first couple times, Louis smiles, friendly. But soon it becomes a game, Louis turning his eyes to Harry, Harry looking anywhere else as fast as he can. A smirk settles permanently over Louis’ lips. He doesn’t need to look to know Harry’s eyes are on him, gaze heavy on his back, golden brown in the sun.

“You’ve been working on that sailboat for an hour,” Louis comments, his eyes trained on his brush as he swipes coral paint back and forth. 

Harry huffs below him. “I’m trying to get it just right!”

Louis hums, smug, not quite believing him. “You’re not even painting what’s in front of you,” he argues, laughing. “What’s there to get right?”

“I still want it to look real,” Harry points out. Louis can practically hear him roll his eyes. 

“Uh huh. Think you been looking up here all day,” Louis answers him. 

“Making sure you’re not about to take a header!” Harry protests desperately. 

Louis just laughs, his head falling back on his shoulder and his eyes disappearing behind crinkles of amusement. 

By dusk, Louis’ hanging the last shutter back on the house, bright white and dried in the sunlight. The little house that had looked like a shack now looks like a slice of oceanside comfort, cheerful and pink. He’ll likely never see it again, but Louis still feels proud of his work, proud that he managed to breathe some life back into the home for Beth to enjoy. When he stands back, hands on his hips, to have a look at the house from the street, Harry joins him.

“You did a really nice job,” he tells Louis. “She’s gonna be thrilled.”

And thrilled she is. Beth takes a long time to just stare at her revived house, the careful application of the paint, seemingly lost for words. She pulls Louis tight to her chest in a hug, overcome with emotion. 

“Thank you. Thank you so much. It looks wonderful. Just like when we bought it,” she whispers to him. When she takes a step back, she holds Louis at arm’s length with a squeeze at either side and then turns to Harry. “And thank you for helping him.”

Harry opens his mouth to protest, but Beth winks at him and heads back to the house. “A watchful pair of eyes always makes the work go faster!” she laughs. 

Harry blushes furiously and busies himself with packing up his backpack while Louis cackles the entire way into the house, validated. 

In her gratitude, she invites Harry and Louis to stay for dinner again. It’s not a casserole, just BLTs and some roasted potatoes, but it hits the spot and saves them from trying to find a cheap dinner in town. They eat outside at a little table Beth has set up in the back, enjoying the early evening as it cools off dramatically. Harry and Beth mostly talk, about art, about college, about her boys that have spread themselves across the country. Louis listens because he’s always been a listener, happy to share in the conversation just by being there. As he picks at his sandwich, Louis realizes the value in companionship. That while he’s signed himself up to a lifestyle of solitude, there’s nowhere else he’d rather be just then, surrounded by two gentle souls, laughing and reminiscing as they share stories with one another. 

Later, when he lies back down in a sun exhausted heap, his heart feels settled. He knows it’s only temporary, but for now, he lets himself feel the contentment in his chest, lets himself find comfort in Harry’s presence across the room, erasing any trace of loneliness. 

x

Louis’ fringe is sticking to his forehead. The temperature in northern California is fast approaching 100 degrees and even the air that slaps in through the wide open windows does nothing to cool them. If anything, the asphalt throws boiling heat into the cab and makes it worse, their t-shirts pasted to their backs. It’s nothing Louis hasn’t experienced before, driving cross country at the height of summer, but it’s still as unpleasant as it gets. Harry resorts to pouring some of his lukewarm water over the top of his head, matting down his curls. If it’s this hot just outside of San Francisco, Louis doesn’t want to know what it’s like in LA, San Diego. 

They’d left Mendocino earlier that morning, stopping for breakfast and coffee on their way out at the same cafe they’d dined in two days earlier. That morning, the tension between them and the hurt caused, feels like a distant memory, a figment of Louis’ imagination. In fact, when he glances over at Harry, his eyes closed and head tilted back, he sees that he’s smiling pleasantly, like he’s not melting by the minute, like there’s never been any hard feelings between them. Louis still doesn’t particularly understand his own feelings, but he’s not about to parse them out now in the sweltering cab. 

The six hours of sweat dripping down Louis’ spine is worth it the moment the Golden Gate Bridge comes into view, hazy smog hiding the top of each red tower. He’s seen pictures of it - everyone has - but it’s much more grand in person, stretching almost a mile across the bay. Harry’s eyes are still closed and though Louis is not sure whether he’s awake or asleep, he shakes him anyway. 

“Harry. Look,” he urges as they speed down the 101 towards it, the bridge rising in front of them, like a monster from the depths of the bay. 

Harry doesn’t say anything, but Louis can see that he’s impressed, his lips parted as he ducks low enough to see as much of the bridge through the windshield as he can. And then they’re on it, one old pickup in a sea of brand new cars, six lanes of traffic crossing in one direction or the other. The landscape down the coast had taken Louis’ breath away several times, but it’s another experience altogether to find themselves on top of the bay, watching the water sparkle like precious stones and pass slowly in contrast to the speed they’re actually traveling. Harry sticks his face just far enough out the window to take a deep breath, a scent that mixes the salty ocean with the exhaust of the city just beyond. 

When they get to the south end of the bridge, Louis follows the tourist signs for Fort Point. Completed just before the Civil War to protect San Francisco from warships at the coast, it’s now a historical site and, as Harry had informed him on the way down, one of the best places to view the bridge. They stop first at the visitor’s center to pick up sandwiches and chips at the cafe - chicken salad for Louis, veggie deluxe for Harry - and Louis only loses Harry twice to the shelves of pamphlets and guides luring tourists. With Harry collected, they head out to the point to enjoy their lunch and take in the bridge from a different perspective, one that Louis can appreciate without having his eyes trained on the road. 

It’s a lot cooler by the water than it had been on the highway, a breeze coming off the bay that’s nearly as refreshing as air conditioning. They skip the chain that surrounds the parking lot to the cement wall that lines the bay. Louis sits with his legs crisscrossed, but Harry lets his drape over the edge, swinging idly while he opens his sandwich. Both hungry, they don’t talk, enjoying the view while they eat and the much needed respite from the truck instead. Louis starts to feel human again and not like a lava lamp. 

“Think you’ll ever go back to Connecticut?” Harry asks, pulling his bag of chips open at the seam. 

Louis looks over in surprise, but considers his question, shaking his head in the end. “Nah. Nothing for me there. Never really was,” he answers. He takes another bite of his sandwich before he puts the question back on Harry. “You? Back to Illinois?”

“Yeah. I’d like to. For holidays and stuff,” Harry says. Louis can see this sparks another thought and Harry turns to him quickly. “What do you do on Christmas?”

Louis laughs and shrugs. “It’s just like any other day.”

“But… you don’t have Christmas dinner or anything?” Harry asks sadly. 

Louis snorts at his tone, so forlorn. “No. But it’s not that big of a deal. I told you, I’m -“

“Fine on your own, yeah. I know,” Harry finishes for him. He still looks put out, frowning down at his half eaten sandwich. 

Louis changes the subject, straightening one leg out to nudge against Harry’s knee. “You decided what you’re gonna do in San Diego? Like, after you find your boy?” he asks. 

Harry doesn’t answer right away, shrugging his shoulders instead. Louis assumes he’s just thinking it through, but after a minute passes, he’s still no wiser to Harry’s answer. Part of him wants to press, curious as to what Harry’s not saying, what he’s holding close to the chest, but he decides to just let it drop. 

“Do you wanna check out the Castro?” Harry asks as he picks up his sandwich again to finish. 

Louis tilts his head, not quite sure what Harry’s referring to, though it sounds familiar, and nods anyway. “Absolutely. See a little of the city while we’re here.”

They finish their food quickly as hungry stomachs do, but don’t rush to get up, Louis laying back on the concrete wall to relax while Harry taps away at his phone. Harry likes to plan, likes to know where they’re going and when, so Louis goes with the flow, trusting his diligent research and general knowledge of the west coast. He hasn’t steered them wrong yet, navigating them to places that Louis hasn’t the imagination to even dream about. He’s happy to just lay there under the sun, eyes shut tight behind his sunglasses, and let Harry draft their itinerary. Before they leave, Harry insists on taking a photo together, a halfway decent execution with his Polaroid. 

After, they delve into the city. It’s congested with traffic and the rolling streets create a challenge for Rhoda, the engine roaring in effort whenever they come upon a hill. Eventually Louis pulls off altogether, parking on a side street so they can take the rest of their adventure on foot. It’s the best way to see and experience a place, so neither of them mind, Harry switching between his phone and camera as he snaps pictures while they walk. 

When they come upon The Castro, it becomes clear why one, it had sounded familiar, and two, why Harry wanted to visit. It’s mid-June and the streets, buildings, and lampposts are all decorated top to bottom in rainbow flags. Even the crosswalks are painted in technicolor stripes. With the sidewalks busy and crowded, it’s unclear if there’s an event taking place or it’s just always this vibrant, a buzzing gay haven. It’s unlike anything Louis has ever seen and he stops at the top of the street just to take it in. Years ago when he’d left Mystic, forced to keep quiet about his sexuality so his stepdad could hold onto the farce that he was straight, a thing such as Pride had been something Louis had only heard about. It existed only in the movies, in stories he read, but never in his own life. To see it now, to hear the snap of a rainbow flag right over his head, makes his heart race with excitement. 

Harry turns back to him when he’s made it a few paces ahead and realizes Louis’ not with him. “Are you okay?” he asks with concern. 

Louis finds he doesn’t know how to answer. He’s never hidden his sexuality, but he’s never worn it proudly either. His first boyfriend back home hadn’t been a secret, but he hadn’t exactly been invited to family dinners either. Years later, Louis has always sought out temporary company, sometimes in decent establishments, other times not, but always discreet. As he watches men and women pass by, some holding hands, others with their arms around one another’s shoulders or waists, he doesn’t know how he should react, if there’s any need to react at all. He stands there for a moment longer, trying to identify the emotion in his chest, but realizes quickly that what he feels, what propels his heart against his ribs, is happiness. 

“Lou?” Harry asks again. 

Louis finally looks at him and smiles, nodding. “Yeah, just. It’s incredible, isn’t it? To see it dressed up like this,” he says, catching back up to Harry. “Good timing on our part.”

“It would have been a miss not to visit,” Harry agrees, dimple deep when he smiles. 

Their hands brush together as they walk and Louis has to physically pull himself away to avoid just taking Harry’s in his own. It’s their surroundings, he reasons. Seeing so many others content in who they are, who their partners are, makes Louis want to prove that he is too. 

“Have you ever been to something like this?” Louis asks. “Like, Pride or whatever.”

Harry nods eagerly. “Every year! It’s the highlight of the summer. I’d never miss it.” He pauses and Louis thinks he already knows the answer before he asks, “Have you?”

Louis shakes his head. “No, I’m usually not in cities. And I haven’t ever really given much thought to it, to be honest.”

The parade, they find out, isn’t scheduled until the end of the month, but there’s still plenty to do, plenty to see. Louis’ certain he’s missing at least half of what they pass by, unsure of where to put his eyes or attention first. Harry mostly leads the way, much more natural in his observation as they walk than Louis’ gawking. They duck into a couple shops that mainly pull tourists, wall to wall in rainbow memorabilia and souvenirs, but find themselves spending the most time in Cliff’s Variety. It’s almost overwhelming how much there is to look at, an eclectic arrangement of goods for the home on one side and an assortment of drag shoes and headdresses on the other. Louis browses casually, never one for adding unnecessary stuff to his life that he’ll end up traveling with, while Harry picks up a few trinkets along the way. 

After Harry pays and they’re back out in the heat, Louis nudges him with his elbow. “What did you get?”

“A few things. This bracelet,” he says as he wrestles a rainbow braid around his wrist. “And a keychain. And something for you.”

“Me?” Louis laughs in surprise. “What is it?”

“I’ll show you when we get back to Rhoda.”

Louis smiles at Harry’s use of the truck’s name. It’s something Louis’ called her ever since he’d purchased the vehicle with years of savings, but it doesn’t usually have staying power among others. 

They wander up Castro Street with no rhyme or reason, heading back in the direction they came, and find a small parlor that sells both ice cream and shaved ice. Harry’s inside the shop before Louis can say otherwise, but the heat is starting to get to him again and he can’t think of a better way to lower his body temperature than consuming his weight in fruity flavored ice. Unsurprisingly, they offer a jumbo shaved ice that’s a mixed rainbow of every tropical flavor they offer, all stacked in a cup and named The Big Gay Snowcone. It’s not exactly a snowcone, but with a name like that, no one’s arguing, least of all Louis. 

“Did you have a parade in your hometown?” Louis asks curiously as they continue their walk back. 

Harry shakes his head. “No, but I’d go down to Chicago for it every year. Or well, when I got old enough that my parents let me.”

Their conversation is both punctuated and interrupted by bites of cold, sweet ice, slurping up the melted liquid from the bottom of the cups. Louis lets his mouth unthaw before he continues.

“Your parents were cool with it? Like, all of it?”

“Yeah,” Harry answers, smiling affectionately as he speaks. “My parents have always been supportive. They even put a little flag outside of our house on the mailbox.”

Louis smiles too, but it’s a bit wry, tense, thinking of his own family. He can’t blame them entirely, he supposes; they hadn’t been prepared to have a gay son. But the more Louis thinks about it, the more he realizes that never should have mattered. 

“That’s nice of them,” Louis comments. He’s waiting for Harry to question his own acceptance, but whether it’s the expression on his face or his tone, Harry chooses not to. 

Instead, he tells Louis about the history of the Castro. He tells him how many gay servicemen in the US military were discharged during World War II, that those in the Pacific theatre chose to settle here in San Francisco. He tells him about the 1960s, the Summer of Love, about the height of androgyny. Everything Harry chooses to share is new information to Louis and he’s both struck with his desire to know more and sadness that he only has a vague knowledge of the history of the LGBTQ+ community. He decides then that wherever he finds himself next, he’ll dedicate his quiet moments to learning more about the past, more about himself. 

Harry stops talking when they finally get back to the truck. They’ve both started to sweat again, the back of their t-shirts dotted with perspiration that not even the shaved ice could keep away. Harry’s sticky with melted syrup and Louis has some between his fingers, so they take turns dumping an old water bottle out over their hands to clean up as much as possible. It’s not perfect, but it’s better, all one can really hope for on the road. 

Louis wipes his hands off on his jeans, drying them. “What did you get for me back there?” he asks. 

“Oh!” Harry laughs in surprise, remembering. “Close your eyes.”

Louis gives him a flat expression. “Seriously?”

“Yes! Close your eyes!” Harry demands, still laughing. 

The moment Louis complies, he can hear Harry digging around in the tiny gift bag from Cliff’s. “Okay. Open,” he says. 

Louis opens his eyes and it takes him a moment to focus on what Harry is holding directly in front of his face. It’s a rainbow rectangle of paper that Louis comes to recognize as a bumper sticker. “‘I’m so gay I can’t even drive straight,’” he reads, laughter in his voice. 

“Can we put it on?!” Harry asks with all the enthusiasm of a child. 

Louis’ first instinct is to say no. He doesn’t want to call attention to himself, not now and particularly not when he reaches Texas. But Harry’s smile is too bright to say no, all teeth and dimples and expectant eyes. He figures he can peel it off when this is all over anyway, when Harry’s left him for his new start and Louis’ still on the road to find his own. Louis tries not to think about how much it will be like trying to peel Harry off his heart. 

“Alright,” he agrees, waving Harry to the back of the truck. 

Harry yells with victory and quickly peels the thin backing off the sticker, slapping it onto Rhoda’s shiny bumper. It’s a little crooked, but Louis has to admit that no matter the ridiculous saying, it does bring a little colour and happiness to her otherwise worn exterior. 

“Just make sure you keep driving straight,” Harry jokes as he stands there, hands on hips, admiring his work. “I’d like to see my next birthday.”

Louis snorts, stepping around to get back in the truck. “Don’t worry. I’ve gotten us this far, haven’t I?”

“Thankfully,” Harry agrees as he settles back into his seat. “I wish we had air conditioning.”

“It should be a little better once we get out of the city,” Louis says in lieu of admitting that he does too. He won’t even let himself think of air conditioning, afraid he’ll never move again. 

Harry hums, closing his eyes. “Where are we headed for the night?”

“Big Sur,” Louis answers. “It’s another few hours, but we can make it before dark.”

As predicted, the temperature drops at least ten degrees outside of San Francisco and once the sun drops low enough in the sky, late afternoon settling in, it starts to feel less like they’re going to catch fire. They stop halfway for a quick fast food dinner that puts Harry out like a light twenty minutes later, but Louis doesn’t fault him, doesn’t even mind the quiet that takes over the cab. With the wind rushing in his ears, he’s alone with his thoughts, spinning again over the idea of being on his own once more in a few days time. He sneaks a look over at Harry once or twice, his head lolling back on his shoulders as he sleeps, lips parted softly with each of his breaths. It had once been a foreign concept to take someone along with him, to be in one another’s presence 24 hours a day, but now Louis is grappling with the idea of looking to his right and seeing the seat empty, devoid of Harry’s warmth, devoid of his joyfulness and random factoids of knowledge. He inhales deeply and lets it out in a sigh so heavy, he’s afraid he’ll wake Harry.

They hit Pacific Grove just as early evening sets in, the air much more mild than it had been even an hour ago. Harry had woken up sometime during the last twenty minutes, mumbling a sleepy greeting as he rejoined the world. Louis tries to engage him in small talk about where they’re headed, where they might stop for the night, but Harry’s distracted, frowning down at his phone. He barely looks up, responding only with a hum or one word at a time, out of character. It’s only human nature to want to ask, but Louis bites his tongue, figuring if Harry wants to share, he will. They’ve nothing but open road and empty air to fill with conversation. 

At Del Monte Boulevard, Louis pulls to the side of the road, the tires on the right hand side dipping into the gravel. It startles Harry from staring endlessly at his phone, his head snapping up like Louis’ just driven them off a cliff. “What’s happening?” he asks, frowning.

“You’re gonna drive Rhoda is what’s happening,” Louis answers, already slamming his thumb into the release on his seatbelt.

Harry’s eyes grow wide, whether in surprise or fear, Louis can’t tell. “What?!” 

“This is probably gonna be the best part of the whole trip,” Louis says, shrugging. “And I’m tired. Give her a go. She’s not that temperamental.”

Before Harry can disagree, find a million and one excuses not to in his back pocket, Louis swings himself out of the driver’s seat. He can see the wheels turning in Harry’s head when he spies him through the windshield, but he has no choice but to switch with Louis. It might not be the wisest idea to put Harry behind the wheel when he seems vaguely upset about something, but Louis can’t stand to see him look so down, so torn up about whatever he’s been pouting at. There’s nothing a long drive can’t help pull Louis out of and he hopes it’ll have the same therapeutic effect on Harry.

“Are you sure?” Harry asks as he buckles himself into the driver’s side.

Louis nods, kicking a foot up on the dash and getting comfortable. “Didn’t you want to drive back when we left Seattle?” 

“Yeah, but that was before I knew this truck was your baby!” Harry protests.

Louis rolls his eyes and neither confirms nor denies Harry’s statement. “Just don’t drive us off a cliff and we’ll be fine.”

Harry takes a deep breath, but pulls Rhoda back onto the street nonetheless. For all the fuss he’d put up, Louis half expects him to veer back into the ditch, but he heads straight and starts them on the 17 mile drive down to Carmel. For as long as Louis’ owned Rhoda, he’s never sat in the passenger seat, but it offers him an entirely different viewpoint as they wind down the coast. It reminds him of Cape Flattery, the way the cliffs turn jagged and craggy, but instead of being surrounded by mist and deep blue water, the Pacific glows cerulean-green under the setting sun. It’s beautiful in a way that makes Louis want to stay still and stare endlessly at the seascape in front of them, to put this drive on film and replay it in his head just when his memory starts to lose the details. 

“It almost doesn’t look like California,” Harry comments, his eyes still on the road. He slows down enough so that it’s safe for him to look too, to wonder over the color of the water and the architecture of the coast, naturally formed by hundreds of years of crashing waves. “It looks like Greece or something.”

Louis’ never been out of the United States, but he knows what Harry means. The water looks less like it belongs to North America and more like it’s been imported from the Mediterranean. 

When they come upon the Bixby Creek Bridge, Harry brings the speed of the truck down to a crawl. Like the Golden Gate Bridge, it no longer feels like they’re inside a truck, but like they’re on top of the sea, an aerial view to the green cliffside the bridge is built into, to the soft, sandy beach below. Unlike the Golden Gate, there are no steel beams obstructing their view, just an open panorama. Seabirds skim the surface of the water, their reflections chasing beneath them. At the horizon, the sun turns the water orange-red, bleeding to a goldenrod the further it reaches. Louis rests his chin in his hand as he stares out at the view, mesmerized by the beauty in front of him. 

At the end of the bridge, Harry pulls the truck to the side, one hand already reaching back for his backpack. It’s just beyond his fingertips, so Louis twists back, hands it over to him.

“Thanks,” Harry says, almost shy. To Louis’ relief, he leaves his phone in the console, forgotten.

Louis leans up against the side of the truck while Harry does his thing, shooting a handful of Polaroids that capture the setting sun, the shadows the bridge casts on the hillside. The coast is breathtaking, but Louis finds himself distracted anyway, watching Harry more than he observes the waves thundering hundreds of feet below. He never seems more relaxed than when he’s creating, no matter if it’s a photograph or one of his delicately crafted watercolors. It makes Louis smile, feel the same peace Harry undoubtedly does, and he thinks he’d stay out there all night if that’s what Harry wanted.

“How do you feel about camping?” Louis calls to him.

Harry turns to him and before he answers, he snaps a Polaroid of Louis, leaning up against Rhoda, half in shadow, the other half gilded in sunset. “What about camping?”

“Let’s skip the motel tonight,” Louis suggests. “I’ve got a couple blankets. We can throw ‘em in the back of the truck and sleep out tonight.”

Harry looks at him skeptically for a split second, but then he turns his head out towards the Pacific, the miles of solitude, and nods. There’s not a motel on Earth that would compare to sleeping side by side with the sea.

It becomes a novelty after that. Louis pulls the truck further off the road, safely tucked into the outlook, and they spend an hour getting Rhoda’s flatbed set up comfortably as night falls. The thickest quilt is doubled over and layered on the bottom while two smaller knit blankets are settled on top, a makeshift bed. It’s not much, just the emergency throws and spreads Louis keeps for occasions like these, but it will serve its purpose and give them a spot to call home for the evening. He’s only got the one pillow, lumpy with age, so he gives it to Harry, rolling up his jacket with a hoodie on top to make one for himself.

“Not bad, right?” Louis says quite proudly, flipping the dim flashlight on that he keeps with the blankets. “Looks comfy to me.”

Harry nods, smiling not unlike a child ready to camp out in the backyard overnight. “Can’t be any worse than some of the motel beds.”

Louis hoists himself up and then offers a hand to Harry to pull him up into the truck bed with him. “The bed at the sasquatches killed me. Springs everywhere.”

“Me too!” Harry laughs. “I thought I was going to wake up impaled.”

It’s still early, but neither of them have any desire to do a single thing but lay there once they get settled. With little space to move around, Louis’ aware of every point of contact, from thigh to shoulder. Harry provides a little extra warmth where the blankets don’t, the chill of the evening settling in. For a while, they just let the silence and distant roll of the sea embrace them, watching one twinkling star come to life in the sky, then another, the color slowly sliding away from the atmosphere to be replaced by black, particularly in the east. When the night sky is decorated with hundreds of beacons of light, Louis knows they made the right choice to stay right here, away from the light pollution that awaits further south. Harry points straight up and Louis’ eyes follow the direction of his fingertip.

“North Star,” Harry says.

Louis smiles, nodding his head. He’s not unfamiliar with constellations, one of the things he’s picked up sleeping out on nights like these. Slowly, he lifts his own hand, his fingers sliding over Harry’s wrist to his own, moving his hand further right. “Little Dipper,” he whispers, then moves their hands just below. “Big Dipper.” And then to the left. “Orion.”

When Louis looks over at Harry to see if he’s following, he’s not looking at the sky at all, but straight at Louis. He wonders if he’s out of line, if he shouldn’t have touched him, but as all his thoughts fire through his brain at once, he hardly has a chance to process them for Harry’s lips meet his own. Louis freezes, their hands still suspended in the air, but he urges his own to Harry’s waist to draw him near. For as much as Louis had wondered with curiosity, nothing his brain had supplied had even come close. Harry’s lips are soft, but dry from the sun, tentative as though there’s a thread of concern Louis might push him away. The idea never crosses Louis’ mind, though, and he presses close, chest to chest, kissing him back as his tongue parts Harry’s lips.

When the kiss breaks, Harry stares at him, and even in the darkness Louis can see that his eyes are wide. He’s not sure if he sees caution or surprise that he’d been so bold, so Louis leans in to kiss him again, this time with all the sureness the past days have provided him. Louis kisses him like they’re sharing a bed in an old lightkeeper’s home, like Harry’s just delicately ran his hands across his red shoulders, like he’s made him laugh, loud and joyful, over a daft bumper sticker. Every missed opportunity of the week reveals itself in that kiss, his tongue exploring the inside of Harry’s mouth the way they’ve explored the coast. 

Whatever question had hung in Harry’s expression vanishes as his hands skate down Louis’ body, palms firm to his ribs, over his chest as he touches him. At some point, Louis had convinced himself it hadn’t been that long since he’d been close to another person, that he didn’t need to be close to another person, least of all Harry. But Harry’s touch sets his skin on fire almost immediately, has his hands grasping at Harry’s shoulders, his back to pull him closer, to eliminate any space that remains between them. The kiss satisfies even the loneliest corners of Louis’ heart and even when they’re both in need of a breath, he leans in again and again, capturing Harry’s lips in soft, lingering kisses and then alternating back to something hot and searing, like it’s the only thing Louis’ ever known how to do. He’s hard before his brain can catch up to his biology, cock pressing into Harry’s hip through his jeans. Louis knows he should stop them now, stop himself now, but then Harry shifts and Louis feels him, just as aroused as he is.

“Lou,” Harry breathes, his whisper loud in the darkness. The waves at the base of the cliffs should drown him out, but Louis can hear him clear as day. “Want you. Wanna suck you off.”

Louis swears he can see the stars above against his eyelids when he closes his eyes, his heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his ears. He tries to find any ounce of will in himself to say no, but finds he has none. Harry might not be his, but it doesn’t mean he can’t give into his desires this once, he reasons, not unlike all the times he’s done the same with strange men he’s met and left along the way. He rolls himself onto his back, the ridges of the truck bed stiff against his spine, and sucks in a deep breath, nodding. 

“Fuck, yeah. Alright,” Louis answers. “Please.”

Harry’s on him before Louis has any opportunity to change his mind, kissing down his jaw, over his neck, biting just hard enough to make Louis arch and grunt beneath him. His hands knock clumsily against Louis’ crotch as he fights with his jeans. Louis lifts his hips enough to help him, work the denim down his thighs, but then reaches for his face. 

“Hey, hey. Slow down a sec. C’mere,” Louis whispers, drawing him down into another open mouthed kiss. 

Harry slows his frantic pace, his tongue tracing Louis’ as they kiss, as though he realizes Louis isn’t about to back out on him, push him away and tell him to forget it. His hand wraps around Louis’ cock, stroking lazily and thumbing at the head in sensual circles that bring a moan to Louis’ lips. Even in the starlight, Louis looks down between them, watches Harry’s fingers, long and elegant, slide up and down on him, slick with precome. Louis knows then that he’s not going to last, not if he keeps watching, not if Harry keeps touching him like this, like he’s learned Louis’ cock from Seattle to Monterey and hadn’t just been introduced. 

They kiss for a moment longer, but Harry’s impatience gets the better of him. His teeth flash in the darkness, an eager smile, and he shimmies down Louis’ body, the blankets rolling into a ball around and beneath him. All their hard work putting together a halfway decent bed is for naught, but Louis can’t bring himself to care, not when Harry licks from base to tip, his tongue flat on the underside. The groan that emanates from Louis’ chest is loud and carnal, one of his hands burying itself in Harry’s hair just for something to keep him grounded. It’s very possible gravity has given way and that he’ll float straight up to the constellations their fingertips had reached for just minutes ago.

When Harry gets down to it, sucks his cock into his mouth in earnest, Louis bites into his opposite wrist to gain some semblance of composure. It’s too much and not enough at once, his hips rolling up on their own accord to meet Harry’s mouth, stretched lips bumping Louis’ groin every time he bobs his head down. Louis’ fingers twist in Harry’s hair and he can feel the second Harry moans appreciatively, vibrating down his cock and straight up his spine, sparks of pleasure causing him to twitch. As much as he wants to see the details, see Harry’s mouth sloppy and wet, his cheeks hollowed, Louis’ grateful for the blurry shapes and shadows he can make out in the dark. In the light of day, he’s positive the sight would knock him dead on the spot.

“Fuck, Harry,” he hisses through his teeth, jaw clenched as he tries, with barely any luck, to stave off his orgasm. His fingers curl tighter in Harry’s hair, pumping his head up and down on his cock rapidly.  Louis’ lips part in astonishment that Harry just lets him, pushing and pulling and guiding. “Holy fuck, H. That’s so fucking good.”

His orgasm doesn’t so much approach quietly as it tears straight through him, his whole body coiling taut and then unraveling at the seams. He can’t remember the last time he’s ever come so hard, his eyes squeezed shut so tightly that nonexistent light bursts behind his lids. Louis only realizes he’s holding Harry’s head down when he sputters around his cock, come spilling over his chin as he breathes hard through his nose. He releases Harry immediately, his hands flopping uselessly at his sides as his legs quiver through a barrage of aftershocks. 

“Jesus Christ,” Harry pants, though his voice is raspy, thick like he’s just recovered from a cold. He wipes his chin with the back of his hand and then licks it off, a gesture that makes Louis groan weakly and his cock blurt one last sad bead of come. 

Louis’ chest heaves too quick, too hard, for him to speak, so he nods dazedly in agreement. When his breathing slows, he opens his eyes again, falling on Harry’s darkened form hovering between his legs. 

“You’re telling me,” he chuckles, his own voice wrecked despite its lack of use. 

Louis pushes himself up, first on his elbows, then on his hands, closer to eye level where Harry kneels. He’s not sure where they go from here, if they both sleep facing opposite directions and pretend this never happened. It’s not what Louis wants and he sure as hell hopes it’s not what Harry wants, so he lets a hand drift down Harry’s chest, over his stomach, settling on his cock, heavy and hard, trapped in his jeans. They don’t speak, but they don’t need to, Harry’s answer in the way he leans down, seals their lips back together in a bruising, needy kiss. Louis pulls his fly open and takes Harry’s cock in hand, tries to give him as good with his calloused fingers as he got with Harry’s skillful mouth. 

Louis had thought he’d been ardent, but it’s nothing compared to Harry’s desperate gasps, the way his hips buck and ride into his hand. Louis bites down on his bottom lip, gives it a sharp tug at the same time he squeezes the base of Harry’s cock, picking up the rhythm. It’s messy, a bit off pace, but it makes no difference to Harry, chasing down his orgasm and gaining on it inch by inch. When it hits, Harry comes over Louis’ hand and up his stomach, trashing Louis’ t-shirt as he collapses forward. Louis catches him around the waist with his free arm as Harry’s hands slap onto his shoulders, squeezing so tightly that Louis can feel it down to the bone. There will be bruises tomorrow, Louis’ sure of it, but knowing that this might be the one and only time they enjoy one another like this, Louis’ okay with the reminder.

When Harry comes down, he’s like dead weight on top of Louis. They’re both sticky with bodily fluids misplaced in the dark, but it doesn’t matter to either of them, slowly dissolving back into place. They lay in the same position they’d started in, but closer, Harry’s head pillowed on the spot Louis’ shoulder meets his chest. His knapsack pillow has long since revealed itself to be just that - a knapsack and a hoodie - so Louis rests against the real one, satisfied that Harry’s using him as his own. Eventually, Louis kicks his jeans off, but pulls his boxer briefs up with one hand, the waistband half rolled around his hips. 

“Am I too heavy?” Harry whispers. 

Louis knows Harry could feel like a boulder on top of him and he’d still answer no. So he shakes his head. “Nah, you’re perfect.”

Louis’ exhausted in a way that driving or the sun or an early morning can’t compare to. He stares up at the sky, still, but slowly rotating, his eyes finding the stars in and out of focus as he blinks, heavy with impending sleep. As he listens to Harry breathe, he can feel the anxiety lying dormant under the blanket of his mind, desperate to break forth and keep him awake all night, overthinking and replaying the whole evening over, a painful reminder that this isn’t real, never has been, will never be Louis’ to keep. But as Harry’s curls, mussed from Louis’ grabby, wanting hands, brush his jaw, his chin, he can’t find it within himself to start, far too comforted by the solace of being side by side. 

He closes his eyes, focuses on the warmth of Harry’s cheek, safe against his heart. 

x

The ache in his lower back and the sun on his face, bright against his eyelids, wakes Louis the following morning. He can smell the dew in the air, feel that the blankets have gone damp with the moisture that’s set in overnight. When he opens his eyes, the sky is the softest shade of blue he’s seen since Montana, the clouds paper thin and powdery. It looks like something Harry would paint, he thinks, and it’s that thought that slams him back into his mind, realization dawning. He pushes himself up suddenly on his elbows, looking down his body at his balled up jeans and the flakes of dried come on his ruined t-shirt. He wrinkles his nose and then sits up fully, the ache in his back bone deep as he looks around at his surroundings. The bridge, the viewpoint, looks a lot different by morning light than it had in the heat of the night. 

Once again, he’s alone, Harry’s spot beside him vacant. But just beyond the brush that surrounds the outlook, he can see Harry sitting on the guardrail, one long leg bent at the knee to balance his sketchbook. Louis takes advantage of the moment just to observe him, the way he can tell his hair is a disaster even from this distance, a result of sleep or Louis’ hands or a combination of the two. He tells himself he hasn’t gotten up, approached him yet, because he wants to watch him, admire his peacefulness, but Louis knows it’s because he hasn’t the slightest where they go from here, if Harry wants to be found, if he wants to talk about what happened.

When he finally works the worst of the stiffness from his back and finds his courage beneath the covers, Louis climbs out of the back of the truck and pulls his jeans on, shuffling down the rail towards Harry. He doesn’t want to startle him, so he makes himself heard, scuffing his boots against the pavement.

“You make a habit of disappearing before daybreak?” Louis asks. He sits on the guardrail too, shoulder to shoulder with Harry, facing the opposite direction.

Harry gestures to the view in front of them. “When there’s something worth capturing.”

Louis looks over his shoulder to the sea, blinded by the sunlight that reflects off the whitecaps. The sun’s only just come up, maybe thirty minutes ago, and the world in front of them still looks fresh, unbothered. He turns his attention to Harry’s sketchbook, the bridge painted to one side and the cliffs and sea reflected on the other. Louis smiles when he notices a tiny blue truck parked in the foreground.

“Looks familiar,” he comments, leaning until his shoulder meets Harry’s. 

Harry smiles and brushes his thumb over the dry paint. “I was going to put us in the back, but I don’t paint nudes.”

Louis cracks a smile and rolls his eyes, but all he feels is relief that Harry’s chosen to acknowledge the evening shared between them. He’s not sure he would have had the willpower to ignore it. “That’s too bad. It was dark last night. Kinda curious what things look like in the daytime.”

Harry laughs, flipping his journal closed with a snap and binding it with the tattered elastic. “Where are we headed today?”

“Santa Barbara, I think,” Louis answers. “I don’t think I can do a full day of driving after sleeping in the truck.”

Harry nods, subconsciously sitting up straighter to stretch his spine. “Me either.”

At the truck, they fold the blankets in silence, but every time Louis looks up, he catches Harry’s eye, much like the afternoon they’d spent at Beth’s. The underlying charge beneath it is different this time, both of them shy, coy, and Louis smiles to himself, his heart stuttering in his chest every time he spots the dimple in Harry’s cheek. 

It should be awkward, Louis had been expecting it, but he finds it’s not at all. When they both settle into the cab, there’s a certain tension between them that’s evaporated. Louis just feels a sense of calm, relaxed and languid, and the gentle set of Harry’s shoulders indicates he’s in a similar place. It’s a slow drive out of Carmel as the 101 takes them a few miles inland away from the coast, the road misty until the sun burns off the fog and humidity and replaces it with dry heat. The further south they drive, the warmer it gets, but they’re blessed with cooler temperatures than those that had engulfed San Francisco the day before. Around noon, an hour outside of Santa Barbara, they stop for coffee and a breakfast sandwich, rattling through the drive thru of a McDonald’s Harry had located on his phone.

With much of the afternoon still ahead, Harry goes on the search for local attractions. Louis can finally admit to himself that he’ll go anywhere, do anything Harry wants to, not a single part of him filled with any kind of desire to turn him down. More surprising, Louis thinks, is that he’s enjoyed each of the places Harry’s taken them to, whether it’s been his particular cup of tea or otherwise, simply because he’s done it all, seen it all with Harry. Every memory he’s made dangles like a loose thread in his mind, Harry attached to them. He hasn’t decided if that’s a good thing or not yet, but he knows he’ll have an answer one way or the other when they reach San Diego in a few days.

They end up at the Museum of Natural History when they pull through to Santa Barbara, ducking out of the worst of the afternoon heat and into blissful, ice cold air conditioning that raises goosebumps on their skin with the sudden change. It’s one of those places Louis would have skipped over, but he’s enthralled as they pass through the halls of specimens, from insects to mammals to invertebrates. Louis’ never seen so many types of fish and birds in one place before and he’s amazed to find that many of them reside right there in California, if not in Santa Barbara itself. Harry walks ahead, reading each of the plaques as he goes, and Louis follows, just footsteps behind him. As intent as he is on learning a thing or two about Mother Nature and all her creatures, Louis finds himself distracted by Harry’s back, his shoulders, the backs of his biceps intercepted by the sleeves of his t-shirt. His eyes hardly stray. 

“Want to take a look out back?”

Louis’ eyes snap to Harry’s face. “Huh?”

“Out back,” Harry says slowly. His eyes are half curious, half amused, like he’s got a good idea of what Louis had just been up to. “There’s a stream and some gardens. And I think they have a whale skeleton out there.”

Louis nods and takes a step forward, his hand finding the small of Harry’s back briefly to push him towards the exit. It’s maybe a possessive gesture, far too friendly at least, but Harry says nothing, so Louis doesn’t either. “Yeah, think I saw they have dinosaur replicas out there too.”

In the gardens, the trees provide plenty of shade, dappled sunlight falling to the ground. Their stroll through ends up more pleasant than sweaty and they stop a time or two for Harry to photograph a plant or flower to keep as reference. Louis makes himself useful by pointing out anything that steals his attention, that he thinks will be helpful for Harry’s landscapes. He’s pretty sure Harry is just humoring him, but Louis has fun with it anyway, pleased it’s something they can do together even if Harry never calls them up to use in his work. They come upon the whale skeleton and each walk through and beneath it, surrounded by its curved rib cage, each bone as thick as Louis’ arm. Harry snaps a Polaroid from under and it results in a perspective that arranges the bones abstractly. 

As it turns out, there are dinosaurs, randomly positioned in the trees as though they truly belong there, giants among men. There’s a triceratops and a stegosaurus, each of the dinosaur’s telltale features visible among the foliage. They have a nostalgic feel to them and remind Louis of visiting parks and museums as a kid, holding out until the end for the dinosaurs and fossils. Harry urges Louis to stand next to the T-Rex that towers over the treetops, swapping his phone once more for his Polaroid to capture the moment. Louis narrows his eyes at Harry’s laughter that ensues. 

“You somehow look smaller than you did in front of the redwoods,” Harry says, his grin cheeky.

“Fuck off!” Louis laughs, shoving his hand against Harry’s shoulder. “You looked fucking tiny in front of those trees too.”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t look like a dwarf next to the dinosaur,” Harry says, shoulders shaking with the effort to hold back his laughter. He waves the square of film around as the photo develops and Louis snatches it from him.

“I’m destroying this,” Louis says.

He does no such thing, however, as Harry grabs it right back from him. “No! I love it. I’m keeping it.”

Louis tries not to read too deeply into Harry’s choice of words. “You ever see Jurassic Park?”

“Course,” Harry answers, tucking the Polaroid into his backpack. “My favorite part was -”

“When the guy gets eaten off the toilet,” they say in unison. The burst of laughter that follows makes a family near by startle, looking over at them as though they’re rowdy teenagers. In a way, Louis supposes they’re not far off. 

“No way,” Harry laughs, shaking his head. “We’re Jurassic Park soulmates.”

For the second time in hardly a minute, Louis chooses to ignore Harry’s phrasing, instead nodding in agreement as he looks away, back at the T-Rex leering over them in the garden. There’s a part of him that wishes the figure would spring to life, pick him up off his feet and swallow him whole just to put him out of his own confused misery. 

After, they wander back the way they came, navigating the many corridors to the front of the building where the gift shop and cafe sits. They pick up an overpriced lunch and sit down to enjoy it, but a field trip of children spills into the cramped space. Just a table over, their boisterous screams and squeals threaten both their hearing, so they pop their sandwiches back into the bag and decide to relocate. It’s not worth sitting inside anway, Louis thinks, not in California where the weather never falters and there’s always a beautiful view right around the corner.

They walk down to Stearns Wharf, built right along the beach and into the water, and find a quiet spot to sit, legs dangling over the edge of the dock. For how much they’d spent on lunch, it’s rather mediocre. Louis alternates between throwing bits of his sandwich into the water for the fish that circle the wharf’s beams and along the dock for a couple seagulls that had appeared as soon as they’d sat down. One of them grows too bold, sneaking behind them until its beak is within reach of Harry’s chips. Before either of them can react, the bird robs them of the entire bag, flying six feet away and ensuing a feeding frenzy between himself and his pals. 

“Christ. No better than rats,” Louis comments, offering up his own bag of chips to Harry.

Harry snorts, but takes them with a sheepish thanks. “You fed them,” he points out.

“I didn’t think they’d turn into chip burglars!” Louis laughs, though he has the decency to look apologetic.

“They’re probably more used to a human diet than they are fish or anything like that,” Harry muses as he watches the gulls rip the bag apart, chips flying like shrapnel. He wraps up the rest of his rubbish and stuffs it back in the bag, safe from their leering visitors.

Louis hums, nodding. “That’s kind of sad.”

Harry doesn’t answer, instead laying his head on Louis’ shoulder. His leg hooks around Louis’ closest to him, tethering them together. It reminds Louis of the night they’d sat on the glass beach in Fort Bragg, Harry’s head a welcome weight that settled not only across his shoulder, but into his chest as well. He feels it now too, the heaviness of affection that sits in the bottom of his heart, fills the spaces left between his bones and muscles, just under his skin. Harry is everywhere, Louis realizes, in his mind, behind his eyelids, and while it’s as familiar as it is foreign, it terrifies him all the same. When he draws in a deep breath to sigh, he feels out of breath, like he’s been holding it for a lifetime, afraid to look his feelings in the eye. 

Now is not the time, though. It’s not the time to give his feelings validation with a label that he’s not even certain of. Lust is all it is, he thinks, all he allows himself to think, fresh off the heels of intimacy. There’s nothing deeper to examine, no point in dragging himself across the coals to discover what he does or doesn’t feel for Harry when he will be a fond memory in a few days time. Louis likes his life simple, unbound to anyone or any place, and he’s not looking to complicate it now, least of all with a temporary acquaintance. But there’s a nagging feeling inside, like an old fishing hook has snagged upon his heart and is attached to Harry at the other end, slowly reeling, pulling Louis deeper into his emotions, all he’s ignored for years past. It’s maybe that moment that Louis knows Harry will break his heart.

“We should find a place to stay for the night,” Louis suggests. It’s only late afternoon, but he’s still tired and sore from Rhoda’s truck bed and he doesn’t feel like dashing from motel to motel in the dark later, trying to find a vacancy.

Harry sits up straight, but he leaves his leg wrapped around Louis’. “I saw a few when we drove into town.”

Santa Barbara has no short offering of motels, they find, a handful situated right across from the beach. Though dated, most of them are clean and cheap and promise a better stay and night’s sleep than any of the places they’ve found themselves so far. The Cabrillo Inn is a cute little establishment, white and blue and cut from the cloth of 70s architecture. There’s a pool and outdoor lounge chairs and from their balcony on the second floor, they have a stunning view of the beach, palm trees dotting the boardwalk that runs parallel. Harry had insisted on paying the extra $20 for the view, talking Louis into it with the idea of a cold beer after the sun’s gone down, feet kicked up on the rail as they get their money’s worth.

Harry cranks the air conditioning as soon as they get into the room, the window unit rattling to life and coughing stale air before it settles down. Louis, however, is preoccupied with another debacle. “We didn’t ask if there was more than -”

Harry shrugs, placing his duffle on one side of the single queen bed in the room. “Doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Louis’ duffle strap slides from his shoulder, his duffle thumping comically on the floor beside him. They’ve shared a bed twice now, once as friends, once as… Louis has no idea where they stand now, but he supposes better friends. “No, reckon not,” he answers. 

They both flop down, plenty of room to stretch out and get comfortable. The bed feels like a California king compared to Rhoda’s cramped flat bed and Louis’ pleased to find they both have two pillows. He’s used to being on the road days at a time, but at this point in their journey, he’s feeling every day that passes in a new part of his body. They should get up and find dinner, maybe take a walk on the beach since it’s right there across from them, but Louis can’t find the will to move and neither can Harry apparently. He’s not sure how long they lay there, just that it’s long enough to close his eyes and drift to the part of his brain that shuts off pleasantly. Only when Harry shifts beside him does he open his eyes, coming back to the popcorn ceilings and ugly seashell duvet on which he lays. 

“You wanna get dinner? I saw a place down the street that has -” Louis starts.

Harry interrupts him quite similarly to the way he had last night, though incredibly, Louis thinks he had been more prepared then than he is now. He hesitates only a second under Harry’s lips before he lifts his head, returns the kiss with more heat, more desire than he realized was sitting beneath the surface. Unlike the tentativeness in which they began the night prior, Louis has none now. His hand finds the back of Harry’s neck, thumb stroking along the hinge of his jaw to coax his mouth open. There had been no expectations that this would happen again, but Louis finds he welcomes it, will welcome it each and every time Harry falls into him. 

Admittedly, it’s a lot more comfortable to roll around, peel one another’s clothes off in a proper bed. Harry undresses Louis the moment the kiss breaks and Louis’ left fumbling to catch up, hurriedly pawing at Harry’s clothes until they’ve joined his own. He feels no hesitation, uncertainty as he flips them over, spins Harry to his back and leans down to devour him. Louis is a man unshackled, Harry holding the keys. Days on the road have left him wanting, a pool of desire he’s done his best and now, failed, to ignore. His mouth maps Harry’s body the way they highlighted their route north to south, not missing an inch decorated with black ink. Harry arches, keens, throws his hands over his head and makes noises Louis hadn’t had the focus to concentrate on last night. 

In the end, he settles between Harry’s legs. Louis glances up to see Harry staring down at him expectantly, but Louis does the opposite. He kisses up the inside of Harry’s leg, coarse hair chapping his lips as he goes, and parts his cheeks with his hands. If he’s only got days, but will spend months thinking of Harry, longing for him, then Louis is going to send him off with memories he can’t erase either. As he swipes his tongue confidently over Harry’s hole, darts the tip inside, he wants Harry to remember this, remember the way his body had a visceral reaction to Louis’ mouth. He groans so loudly, fists his hands in Louis’ hair so desperately, that for a moment Louis is reminded of the motel keeper back at the sasquatches, his warnings of noise and funny business. 

“Louis, I -“ Harry breathes, his voice broken, destroyed. He’s pinching his nipples, his cock long and hard against his hip, angry red and leaking. Louis had missed the details in the darkness, but now he drinks him in, can nearly feel his eyes dilate with craving.

Louis eats Harry out like he’s his last meal. Harry’s all whines, shivering and shaking against the stiff motel duvet. Louis mouths up to his balls, leaving Harry’s hole spasming for attention, and sucks one into his mouth. He can tell by the tension in Harry’s thighs he’s not got long left, so he dips his head down, sucks on Harry’s hole and drags his finger through the pool of saliva on his skin. The moment he presses inside, twists his index finger to the knuckle and rubs, Harry comes all over himself, long stripes up his chest, across his fingers that had still been prodding at his nipples. Louis delves his tongue inside, feels him tense and contract, licking him through it long after Harry’s stopped coming. Eventually, Harry pushes at his head, oversensitive. 

“Fuck,” Harry whispers, chest heaving. 

Louis sits back and wipes his chin with his palm, staring down at Harry splayed out before him, sex stupid and served up on an ugly bedspread. He smiles and leans down to kiss up his body the same way he’d gone down, mouthing at come and tasting Harry the whole way to his lips. They’re both filthy now, will need a shower before dinner, but Louis’ suddenly not interested in food, his hunger residing elsewhere. 

“That good?” Louis asks, mumbling the words against Harry’s lips. Harry only half kisses him, exhausted. 

Harry nods, lips slowly spreading in a sleepy smile. “Fucking… god,” is all he manages. 

“Been called loads of things, babe, but god isn’t one of ‘em,” Louis answers. He cringes inwardly at his use of a pet name, but Harry says nothing. In fact, Louis thinks his smile grows. 

“Shut up,” Harry laughs, his hand barely making contact with Louis’ shoulder when he shoves him. 

Harry rolls to his side then, slides his hand down Louis’ chest and to his cock for a handful. His erection has since flagged, but Harry’s fingers work him back up as they kiss. It’s slow and lazy, like Harry’s pleasure addled brain can only translate into so much speed, but Louis likes it, the way he can feel every minute shift in Harry’s hand. When he comes, it almost sneaks up on him, the unhurried pace coaxing his orgasm from the pit of his belly so gently that it catches Louis unawares. Harry catches most of it on his hand, in his fist, and when Louis finally opens his eyes, Harry’s doing the same thing he’d done the night before. He licks between his fingers, over his palm, and Louis groans, looking away, the sight once again enough to make him want to roll Harry back down into the mattress. 

“You’re so…” Louis trails, shaking his head. 

Harry tilts his head, playing coy even though Louis knows he’s far from it. “I’m so…”

“Fucking hot. Gorgeous. Thought that the first time I met you,” Louis admits, rolling his lips into his mouth after. “Never expected you to walk through those doors.”

“Didn’t expect you either,” Harry says. He flops down and arranges himself into Louis’ side much like the way they’d slept, Harry’s head to his chest. “Thought it was probably some old fella that found my journal.”

“Does my voice sound old?” Louis asks, half self conscious. 

Harry shakes his head, curls catching on Louis’ sweaty chest. “Not at all. Just didn’t think it was gonna be some hot guy. Especially one I might’ve had a shot with.”

Louis hums with amusement as he thinks about it. Their road trip south had been anything but what Louis had expected. It’ll cause him heartache in the end, a lot of unnecessary trouble that could have been avoided if he’d just told Harry no, but it is what it is, he tells himself. He’s not alive to make perfect decisions that never put his heart at risk; he’s spent nearly a decade doing that. Maybe, Louis wonders, Harry is a lesson. To live more boldly with less fear, to be as wild as the places his adventures take him. 

Harry falls asleep on him, so Louis lets himself drift too, the pull of slumber too strong for even his darkest doubts. When they wake, the sun’s already disappeared, replaced by early evening and streetlights that cast long palm tree shadows along the boardwalk. Their room is only equipped with a single stall shower, so Harry goes first, then Louis, before they dress to go in search of dinner. Like this morning, there’s another shift in their chemistry. They walk closer, touch more frequently, and when Louis’ hand bumps into Harry’s, Harry takes it in his own, their fingers laced loosely. He does it so casually, like they’re a proper couple, like they’ve done this the whole trip, that Louis forgets to overthink for a moment. Right when his mind starts to flip the lights on and hit the switch, Harry squeezes his hand, looks over at him with that smile, a dimple just for Louis. 

Everything goes quiet, powers down, and Louis smiles back. 

x

They reach LA the next morning, sprawling across the Hollywood Hills, and immediately hit traffic. Louis feels like he’s in an oven as they crawl a foot, then another, baking on the pavement like cookies on a tray. There’s no air movement, nothing to act as faux air conditioning, and Louis regrets thinking San Francisco had been hot when he’s boiling alive in his seat. Harry’s fingers that had drifted mindlessly over his knee while they drove have regretfully retreated, too hot for any contact. They’re not near the ocean, can’t even see it from where they are, and they look at one another at the same time and decide to go somewhere else. Neither of them have any interest in the Hollywood Walk of Fame or some sort of celebrity tour, so once they’re released from the choke hold of traffic, they speed southeast, back to the coast. 

“Huntington Beach?” Harry suggests as they roll through the coastal city. 

It reminds Louis of Santa Barbara, the motels and shops on one side of the street, the Pacific Ocean on the other. He doesn’t need to be anywhere that feels overwhelmingly different, though. Santa Barbara had been good to them, the memories there as searing hot as the temperature had been in LA. If Louis dwells too long, his brain threatens to melt, despite the cooler air they find off the beach. He wonders if he’ll always search for places like this now, ones that remind him of Harry, how Harry made him feel, that brings the burning back to his chest. 

It’s still too early to find a motel for the night, so Louis parks Rhoda at one end of the Pacific Coast Highway so they can take the rest by foot. There’s plenty of surf shops to duck into, little restaurants that mainly boast seafood or tacos, but they find themselves on the beach before long, boots in hand and their toes in the sand. 

“Almost the end,” Louis says as they walk. Tomorrow they’ll head for San Diego and go their separate ways. Louis ignores the twist that starts in his stomach and drags his heart right down with it. 

Harry doesn’t say anything until Louis looks over, prompting him for an answer. “I suppose it is.”

“Excited?” Louis asks. “To get there, I mean.”

Harry shrugs, looking down at the sand, his face troubled. “Sort of.”

Louis raises his eyebrows, surprised by Harry’s lack of enthusiasm. He can’t imagine traveling so far, over 1,200 miles, to chase down an old flame, and not feeling anything. Just a sort of excited that feels more like Harry would rather travel 1,200 miles north again instead. He doesn’t press him on it as they walk and when Harry’s fingers brush his own, this time he takes them. Harry belongs to someone else, but that’s tomorrow, Louis thinks, not today. He’s going to live in this three day fantasy they’ve constructed together as long as he can. Harry doesn’t pull away, just laces his fingers between Louis’. 

“You ever surf?” Harry asks, pointing out to the few people that dot the waves breaking. 

Louis shakes his head. “Not properly. I did the, you know, boogie boards or whatever as a kid, but.”

Harry laughs, clearing whatever cloud had hung over his face earlier. “Boogie boards definitely don’t count.”

“Well, can you surf? Expert over here,” Louis scoffs. 

“Actually, yes. I learned when I moved to Washington,” Harry says proudly before he realizes he might have to put his money where his mouth is. “I’m not amazing or anything, but I can get up on the board.”

Louis stares out at the sea, the lithe surfers who climb atop the waves and make it look like child’s play. “Teach me,” he says. 

“Really?” Harry asks, surprised. 

“Why not,” Louis answers, shrugging. “We’ve passed like four surf shacks that offer rentals.”

So that’s what they do. They rent a couple of boards and wetsuits from the next surf hut they come upon, brushing off the employee’s concern when he asks repeatedly if they know what they’re doing. Louis thinks he’s trying to upsell them lessons, but looking at the pair of them, he’s probably just concerned for their lives and his own liability. There’s a couple of curtained off stalls to change and Louis struggles to get the wetsuit over his ass, cursing the shape his body insists on taking. He’s about to yell to Harry to forget the whole thing when they both immerge and Louis’ mouth runs dry. Harry’s body is long, legs slender, all hugged by the suit like he’s been poured into it. He takes a mental photograph, wishing for once he had Harry’s Polaroid in hand just to capture his body, fit and broad and so southern Cali he looks like he’s been here his whole life. 

“Ready?” Harry asks him, his toes turning in. His face is flushed and though it’s likely from his own struggle to get the suit on, Louis likes to think it’s a result of his unwavering gaze. Louis doesn’t even have the decency to be shameful about it. 

“Ready.” Louis bends down to tuck the board under his arm, drawing in a deep breath and the strength to avert his eyes. 

He lets Harry go first, plunging through the surf until his board floats and he can lay flat against it. All of Louis’ attention falls to his ass, pert beneath the layer of neoprene, as he paddles out to where the waves crest. Surfing, Louis thinks, is a hazard if you’re halfway in love with the person teaching you. 

The thought startles him. He freezes ankle deep in the water, his heart pounding uncontrollably, and feels as though he might topple backward, like a wave has come and struck him in the chest. The realization hits him so solidly, Louis forgets to breathe. For days, he’s tried to justify what he feels, find excuses to explain away his constant drift into Harry or just plain ignore it. And now he has his answer, as clear as the water that rushes over his bare feet. When Harry looks back over his shoulder to check that Louis is following, is right behind him, he smiles and waves a hand, beckoning. That smile fills up Louis’ chest, makes him feel warm even in the places submerged in ocean water. It presses against his ribs, makes his heart feel too big for his body. I’m falling in love with him , Louis thinks. It’s the most honest he’s been with himself in a decade. 

After that, he can barely stop shaking enough to climb onto his board and pursue Harry. He’s distracted, caught in the depths of his own mind, and doesn’t even feel the waves as they break over his board, throwing spray straight into his face. Harry holds a hand out when he’s near and Louis reaches for it, lets Harry pull him close until their boards bump together. He hesitates to let go, but Harry’s hand slips from his grip anyway.

“So we’re just gonna practice here a while,” Harry says. He’s sitting upright, bobbing on the surface, but he lays back down, chest to board. “You have to get used to the speed, the coordination of popping yourself up. You just press down onto the board and jump to your feet. All one motion. Don’t climb to your knees first - it’s too slow.” 

Harry demonstrates with more grace than Louis thought possible of his long limbs. His biceps flex in the wetsuit, supporting his weight as he presses himself up and shifts his feet underneath his body in one snap. He stands right up, balancing on the water and looming over Louis, and then jumps back into the ocean, disappearing until his curly head resurfaces.

“Did that make sense?” Harry asks, his chin resting on his board as he looks up at Louis. His eyes reflect the ocean, turning them a brilliant blue-green, eyelashes hanging onto drops of seawater. Louis swallows, nodding.

“Yeah, I think,” he answers, mouth feeling dry, like he’s swallowed saltwater. He gives it a go, placing his hands down on the board and pushing himself up with all the strength he can muster. It’s harder than it looks, he realizes almost immediately, as he tries to will his legs underneath himself all while maintaining some sort of balance. He ends up climbing up to his feet slowly and Harry laughs, shaking his head, though it’s not cruel.

“Sorta. But you have to go fast. All at once,” Harry says, his voice gently guiding. “Don’t be afraid, yeah? It’s not gonna hurt if you fall. Just go for it, cowboy!”

It’s not gonna hurt if you fall. Louis wants to scoff even though he knows Harry’s choice of words have nothing to do with matters of the heart. Just go for it. If it had been that simple, they’d have been hooking up all week, Louis would have made his feelings clear, spent days letting Harry in and charming him. Instead, he’d held him at arm’s length as far as he could, wasted time. He’d resisted every step of the way until he couldn’t any longer, weak under Harry’s lips. 

He feels too distracted to learn a new skill, too torn up over his own feelings materializing too late. He focuses on Harry’s voice, his soft encouragements. He looks so hopeful, so confident in Louis’ ability to pop up on the board, that he keeps trying anyway, releasing his inhibitions and the fear his muscles hold subconsciously. He manages to get a little faster, but not enough to attempt the same on a wave twice his size. 

“You’ll get it eventually,” Harry promises as he swings himself back onto his own board. He reaches across to pat Louis’ thigh, lets his hand linger and warm Louis’ chilled skin through the wetsuit.

Louis gestures out to the rolling waves. “Show me how it’s done. I’ll stay here,” he says. When Harry hesitates, Louis laughs. “ Go . I never expected to get on a wave today anyway.”

So Harry paddles out, just one of many in a line waiting for the next wave to come rolling through. Louis has to admit that he’s a bit skeptical of Harry’s claims, but as with most of what he’s expected of Harry, he’s proven wrong. A decent wave comes tumbling for the shore and Harry chases it down as fast his arms will paddle, jumping up on his board. He wobbles only momentarily and then finds his footing, riding the wave in with no style, but with confidence nonetheless. The ocean parts for his board, the wave supporting his weight like he not only walks on water, but runs. It’s another hidden talent of Harry’s, like all his beautiful creations he keeps locked in the pages of his journal, only seen by eyes Harry deems privy. 

When Harry paddles back, Louis gives him the slow clap he deserves. Laughing, Harry sits up on his board and bows until his nose touches it, curls twisting with the salt and unruly on his head. 

“Encore!” Louis cheers. 

Harry snorts, shaking his head. “Let’s just float here. I wanna be with you.”

Harry says it so effortlessly, no revealing admission in his voice. He smiles and lays backward on the board, face turned to the sun, so Louis does too, floating side by side and knocking into one another on occasion. Neither of them speak. Louis doesn’t because all that’s on his mind is tomorrow, is San Diego, are his feelings that have taken over every space in his body. Harry doesn’t because… well, Louis doesn’t know why, but when he looks over, he looks relaxed, content, like he’s never been happier to be anywhere than on top of the Pacific Ocean. 

They spend the rest of their rental like that, floating, and when they return to the shack, the attendant raises his eyebrows. “Didn’t do much surfing?” he asks, though Louis detects a hint of relief. He’d clearly been watching them for an impending accident. 

It’s late afternoon, so they rinse the salt from their skin in the changing stalls and wrestle back into their clothes. Louis’ sure they can check into a motel around here now, get themselves settled before scoping out dinner. This time, their hands find one another at the same time, fingers clasping. It’s no longer on accident or one or the other instigating; it’s just a thing they do now. Harry swings their hands the whole way back to the truck, like this is normal, like Louis is his and he is Louis’. It almost hurts, how casual he is about it, like Louis’ heart isn’t already starting to cut its ties, burn its support beams, ready to drop out of his chest when Harry leaves. 

The Sun ‘n Sands is only a few yards down the street, so they putter into the lot, relieved to see the neon vacancy sign. Summertime in southern California leaves little to choose from, though Louis supposes most tourists flock to the high end boutique hotels that flank either side of the Sun ‘n Sands. This time, when the motel clerk hands them over keys for a single bed room, neither of them jump to correct her. Louis just thanks her and leaves to collect their things from the truck, hauling them up to their second floor abode. Like Santa Barbara, they’ve gotten lucky with a room that faces the ocean, but at no extra charge, one of the few left. 

It’s one of the uglier rooms they’ve had, garish duvets, green carpet, and surfer decals peeling on the walls that are reminiscent of the sasquatch that had watched over them in Ocean Shores. The TV is ancient and the overhead fan rattles away as it oscillates. But neither of them seem to notice. Somewhere on the short drive, they’d both steered their minds onto the same track. As soon as Louis drops their duffels to the floor, he turns to Harry, crowds him up against the wall just beside the bathroom door. He kisses him desperately and slowly all at once, drawing the salt off his lips that still lingers from their lazy surf. Harry doesn’t even act surprised; he melts an inch down the wall and tilts his head, chasing Louis’ tongue down like he had the waves. 

It’s unhurried, the way they undress. First Louis’ shirt, then Harry’s, tossed somewhere towards the bathroom. Louis’ mouth tracks down Harry’s body, across his collarbone, the side of his neck, licking the salt from his skin. He tastes clean like the ocean, like sun and California air, and he walks Harry back until his knees collapse against the bed. For all of Louis’ worries, being with Harry in the moment feels uncomplicated. It feels like the easiest thing he’s ever done as he strips Harry of his jeans, follows his hands with his mouth and pulls breathy sighs off Harry’s lips. Louis stands back, kicks his boots off and unzips his jeans, his eyes never wavering from Harry’s body, long and a little tan from days on the road under the sun. He lets himself really look this time, the details he’d missed in the dark and his rush to act on his desire in Santa Barbara. He takes in the shape and strength of Harry’s thighs, the way his ribs are visible when he stretches his arms over his head, already arching with want. 

“There’s lube in my bag,” Harry says, half a whisper until his voice cracks on it. 

Louis’ eyes snap to his face, certain he’s misheard him, that his own brain is filling in conversation. “What?”

“Lube. In my bag,” Harry repeats. He sits himself up on his elbows, looking, for the first time, nervous. Louis’ not sure why until Harry continues, “If you want. Like, to fuck me.”

And Louis wants. He can’t think of a single thing he’s wanted more in recent months, years, than to be inside Harry. He nods like a bobblehead and then finally urges himself into action when Harry’s nerves dissolve into a smirk, his nose flicking towards his bag to prompt him. It’s right there with the sunscreen and aloe and Louis has no idea how he’d missed it while digging in his bag in Mendocino. It seems like an odd thing to bring on a roadtrip with a complete stranger, but then Louis helpfully reminds himself that it was never meant for him. He remembers Harry’s actual purpose for traveling and feels a lump form in his throat, so large he’s afraid to choke. 

“Find it?” Harry’s voice calls. 

Louis closes his eyes, stills his hands. He takes a deep breath and then turns around, smile fixed in place as he nods. “Found it. Right next to the sunscreen,” he chuckles. 

Harry bites down on his bottom lip, devilish. “I was hoping you’d find it ages ago.”

It comes as a surprise to Louis, but he just laughs, though even to him it sounds slightly hollow to his ears, like it sits all in his mouth and never reaches his chest. Harry’s looking at him like he’s the only person he’s ever wanted so badly in his life, though, and for now, that’s enough. Louis drops down over him and catches his mouth in a kiss before Harry can pick up on his change in energy, ask what’s under his skin. Louis’ not willing to let this moment tarnish under his own caught feelings, his selfishness that’s telling him to keep Harry or not have him at all. He tells himself to stay in the present, focus on the man beneath him, eager and willing and staring up at Louis like his whole world belongs to him. It hurts in the best way, twists Louis’ heart until it’s wrung dry of affection. 

When he opens Harry up, it’s slow, intentional, two fingers buried deep inside him and pulling an endless rope of moans from Harry’s lips. Louis gets lost in it, watching his fingers reappear and disappear like some sort of magic act, a rabbit in a hat. Harry shivers, bends off the bed with pleasure as his low groans bounce from wall to wall. He breathes hard, cards his hands through his own hair, and when he’s overcome, he reaches for Louis, palms slipping on his shoulders. 

“C’mon, Lou,” Harry breathes, his chest already rising and falling in a desperate rhythm. “Please? Please. Wanna feel you.”

Harry’s so tight around his fingers that Louis’ certain he should spend another minute, ease another finger inside, but Harry is insistent and his hungry green eyes persuasive. Louis nods, licks over his lips as he slowly backs away, wiping his fingers on his thigh. He digs around in his own duffle for a condom, a couple foil packets floating around at the bottom, hardly ever sought. 

“How do you want me?” Harry asks, lifting his head. 

Louis contemplates. This is likely their first and last time together, like this, so it needs to count. He thinks about the first time he met Harry, how he’d noticed his eyes and kind smile above all else. How, over the course of their travels, he’d learned those green eyes, their many shades in different lighting, the emotion and intelligence they hold. And now, dark with desire for him and him alone, Louis can’t imagine not seeing them, Harry’s face, the sheer rapture across his features. 

“Like this,” Louis answers finally, returning between Harry’s legs. “Just like this.”

He uses his lube slick fingers to pump at his cock, faltering when Harry decides to touch himself, just beyond Louis’ reach. The tip of Louis’ cock grows wet and he grunts right out loud as he rolls the condom down, rock hard in his palm. 

“Tease,” Louis quips on an exhale.

Harry smirks, playful. “You’re taking too long.”

It’s Louis’ turn to tease after that. He lines himself up, dragging the head of his cock across Harry’s hole, watching him clench around nothing as his hips rock down impatiently. It elicits a high whine from Harry, writhing to get his way, at Louis’ mercy for any kind of satisfaction. Louis is only human, though, and his own keenness takes over, spurring him into action. He pushes forward inside, sinking inch by inch as Harry’s tight body draws him in until he bottoms out, pelvis snug to Harry’s ass. Harry is all tension and then all bliss, his mouth hanging open on a moan. Louis waits for him to open his eyes, to stare back at him and encourage him to move. 

The chemistry Louis’ body has with Harry’s, in the most carnal sense, should come as no surprise, but it does anyway. When Louis snaps his hips forward, Harry’s legs clench around his waist as he arches up, meeting his thrusts. The moment Louis sits up on his knees to change the angle, Harry lifts a leg to his shoulder. It’s a push and pull, a complicated dance only the two of them have been born with the talent to complete. 

“God, Louis,” Harry breathes, his head thrown back into the overstuffed motel pillow. “ Fuck , that’s so - oh!”

Louis can’t help but grin, blissed out, even as he feels the sweat break out on his forehead, slip down his spine to the dimples in his back. He drops forward, catching himself on his elbows at either side of Harry’s head. He lets himself go, chasing his instincts as he hammers into Harry, hips rocketing in a rhythm that might be too fast, but holds all his desperation. To leave a mark on Harry’s life, on his heart, the same way he’s done to Louis, to keep him for an hour or two longer, keep him here in this moment with him. He feels Harry’s hand slide through his hair, cradling Louis’ head, his face pressed into the side of Harry’s neck as he pants fiercely. Harry holds him so delicately, so affectionately, that Louis feels his heart rip in two, threatening to shred into a hundred more pieces. 

“Harry, shit . I -“ Louis starts, but cuts himself off. The honesty about to tumble forth startles Louis and he clamps his mouth shut. Before he says something rash, something that will ruin their last night together. Harry doesn’t feel like that about him. 

Instead, he closes his eyes and pounds home, rocks Harry’s body up the mattress until the sheets are dragging with him, bunching under his damp skin. He can’t tell which are his moans or Harry’s, the sounds blending together and poured into one.

“Lou,” Harry interrupts, pulling at his hair. “Touch me.”

There’s little space between their bodies, slipping together with sweat, so Louis takes hold of Harry’s thighs and rolls them over in one swift motion. He vaguely wonders where all that speed was when Harry had been trying to teach him to surf. But then Harry sits straight, rolls his hips up and forward, bounces shallowly in a way that pulls at Louis’ cock so deliciously that his eyes nearly roll to the back of his head. He uses the last of his awareness to wrap his fingers around Harry’s cock, trying to balance the rhythm of his hand with his own hips, bucking beneath Harry. 

The closer Harry gets, the sloppier his motions become, barely holding any cadence as he desperately closes in on his climax. His hands fall to Louis’ chest for support, fingertips white with tension, and he stills, slowly starting to shake as he shoots over Louis’ fingers, coming in wild stripes. It’s too much for Louis, the way Harry’s body grips his cock like a vice, and he tosses his head to the side, swearing as he comes. 

“Christ, Harry! Fuck ,” he yells out into the room, hearing his own words ricochet back to him like an out of body experience. 

Harry slumps forward, a collapsed pile of limbs, with Louis’ hand still trapped between them. Louis doesn’t move either, his heavy panting causing the only shift in their bodies. He moves to kiss Harry’s head, but more or less drags his lips across his temple, down his cheek, exhausted. 

“You’re incredible,” Louis whispers, voice thick with sex. “Amazing.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, but he preens under the compliment, lazy smile spreading across his face as he rolls to the side, flat on his back. Louis takes the opportunity to catch his breath a second longer before he peels the condom off. He ties it up and throws it toward the trash, hoping it makes it in, not bothering to check. 

“Think… you’ve sufficiently made my brain turn to liquid,” Harry says, his eyes closed. 

Louis laughs, pats a hand sideways towards Harry’s chest. Harry takes it as an invitation, staking claim to the same spot he’s found the last few days. 

“We’ll put it in the freezer,” Louis says, eyes closing. “Freeze it back to solid.”

Harry huffs his amusement, his thumb stroking the center of Louis’ chest where his hand rests. Like this, it’s easy to forget who they are, where they are, what lies ahead of them. It’s easy to pretend Harry is his, that they’re on a little getaway with one another, that Harry is a permanent fixture in his life. That they both wander, drift, because they want to. But Louis knows that’s his lifestyle and not Harry’s. He knows Harry is beside him as a matter of convenience, that he is a means to an end and entertainment along the way. It hurts, flares like wildfire inside his chest, leaving the landscape barren, desolate. 

When Louis opens his eyes, an hour has passed. Harry is asleep, his hand still on his chest, but motionless, eyelashes spread across the tops of his cheeks as he slumbers soundly. It takes a surgical amount of precision to separate himself from Harry, climbing inch by inch until he’s on his feet. He’s restless, even light sleep evading him, so he rises to clean himself up, poke around the room to distract his mind from all the dark corners it seems to be attracted to. 

Harry’s left his sketchbook on the table across from the bed, his backpack beside it. It’s not Louis’ to look through, but he can’t deny his curiosity. Most of their trip has been catalogued inside the journal, laid down in pale watercolors with a steady hand. As he flips through the pages, Louis smiles at Harry’s imagination, each painting reflecting the location with a tiny twist. The pirate ship, the sailboat, Louis’ truck. There’s so much of him that wants to steal the pages, hold onto them until they’re yellowed and frayed, but he doesn’t. They’re not his to keep and, he thinks, maybe Harry wants a piece of their time together as well. 

As he moves to flip the journal closed, a triangle of soft paper emerges from between two pages. Louis tugs it gently, revealing a square napkin, and furrows his eyebrows with confusion. But its secrets come clean when he turns it over, his messy penmanship staring back in blue ink. 

 

Harry aka HES

 

Louis’ lips part in realization. His makeshift sign from the coffee shop in Seattle, inviting Harry to find him. He turns back over his shoulder to look at Harry, still fast asleep, his arms since wrapped around a pillow. Louis can’t imagine why he’s saved something that should be in the trash, 1,200 miles away.

There’s no reason for him to do it but hopefulness. He finds one of the motel pens on the desk and writes his number below the old note, adding:

 

if you ever need me  

x

He’s walking on the beach, unaware of what time it is or where he is, just that there is sand beneath his feet and the wind in his hair, at his eyes, tears invading the corners. There is no reason for him to go forward and no reason for him to go back, nothing in sight except vast emptiness. He is alone, but the search pulls his feet forward, one step after another, and when he feels his chest burn, he knows not what he is looking for, but who . Harry is nowhere and everywhere at once. He can feel him just out of reach, but he cannot see him, so he begins to run, his feet splashing in the water as it drives up the sand and then recedes. There’s a shadow further down the shore, obscured by heatwaves like pavement on a hot summer day, but it is tall and the closer he gets, the more solid it - he - becomes until he is smiling, laughing, reaching a hand out towards him. But when he lifts his hand from his side, stretches his fingers towards Harry, the tide comes and takes him a way, a great wave knocking him from his feet and his consciousness. 

Louis jolts awake, his eyes springing open on the ceiling, an ugly water stain bearing down on him. It’s early, but past sunrise, the light streaming in and illuminating the stale dust that hangs in the air. Harry is curled around him, his head against his ribs and just below his armpit, breathing moistly against his waist. It feels almost normal, like this is Louis’ always, until he thinks about their next destination. 

San Diego. 

His eyes close, willing himself back to sleep. Another hour, another six. Maybe when Harry wakes, he’ll forget where they are, where they’re meant to arrive today. They can keep living in the confines of Huntington Beach, replaying yesterday over and over, no place behind, no place forward. But as Harry’s eyes flicker open, squinting into the room and then up at Louis, he can see the exact moment it registers on Harry’s face. His eyes dart to the clock as he sits up, frowning as he rubs his hands over his face to disguise it. Already late to their early morning start, Louis figures. As much as Louis wants to stay, Harry wants to go. 

They exchange smalltalk as they pack. Are you hungry? Not really. Coffee, though. Ran out of socks . Here, I have an extra pair. Let’s get water at the vending machine before we go. As long as it’s not Dasani. And then their things are in the truck, Louis behind the wheel, Harry beside him, and that’s it. Louis lets out a breath so long and suffering that it blows his fringe up and off his forehead as they speed south. Everything they were, ever will be, ever could be is left behind at the Sun ‘n Sands, Room 208. 

Louis drives straight through to San Diego, a shot that takes just over an hour with little traffic during late morning. He’s not sure if he wishes for a highway backup to delay them further or if he’s happy to arrive early, eager to rip the bandaid of Harry’s departure off. Halfway there, he has Harry search for a place for him to stay, as budget friendly as the city will allow. He has no idea what Harry’s plans are for the evening, but he doesn’t ask either. He doesn’t have the heart to hear it and he doesn’t want Harry to think he’s snooping into his life. 

At the Velario, a budget hotel with far too much velour - furniture, curtains, duvets - Harry lingers in the background of the lobby as Louis books himself a room. There’s a pool in the back that he plans on sitting by, not in the mood to explore or do much of anything than drown his sorrows in cocktails that may or may not have an abundance of fruit and an umbrella. Room key in hand, he heads backs outside and stops by Rhoda to pick up his duffle. 

“Are you… uh, staying?” Louis asks, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s gotten Harry to his ultimate destination; he sees no reason why he’d want to linger. 

Harry’s head jerks up when he speaks, like Louis’ voice has startled him. “Do you want me to?” he answers. 

“I’ll be fine on my own again, if that’s what you’re asking,” Louis says, trying to keep his tone from getting defensive. He doesn’t need Harry’s pity, doesn’t want him to drag this out any longer than it needs to be just to avoid Louis’ hurt feelings. 

Harry shakes his head. “I’m not. I just -“

Louis interrupts him. “You don’t have to worry about me. You should go,” he says, nodding firmly. “You should go. That’s what we came all the way here for, right? Your fella.”

“My fella. Right,” Harry says, dejected. He looks away from Louis and then reaches for his belongings. 

Louis stands right in front of him as Harry unzips his backpack. He wiggles his sketchbook from his supplies and hands it to Louis, eyes averted.

“You should have this,” Harry tells him. 

Louis shakes his head. “I couldn’t take that, Harry, I -“

“It’s full,” Harry informs him. “I have no use for it anymore. Have it. Please.” He forces it into Louis’ hands before he can say no again. 

Louis stares down at the book in his hands, an artistic journey down the coast, an object of fate that had somehow drawn them together like two lost magnets in Seattle. He hugs the journal to his chest, looking up at Harry with an immense rock in his throat, trying not to let his emotion show on his face. 

“So. This is it,” Louis whispers. 

Harry doesn’t nod, doesn’t answer, just looks back at Louis with sad green eyes, pleading. For what, Louis doesn’t know. To make this easier on him? To let him leave without guilt? When Louis says nothing, Harry finally nods, resigned. 

“Can I get a hug before I go?” Harry asks. 

Louis steps forward to embrace him, one arm tight around his shoulders. His face presses into the base of Harry’s neck, breathing him in a final time, a smell so unique to him that Louis won’t soon forget it. Or so he hopes. 

“Take care of yourself,” Louis says, stern. “I hope you find him. I hope you find everything you’re looking for.” 

And Louis finds he means it. Because though he feels like his heart is a dying star, losing all the light it's found in the last week, he would never wish unhappiness on anyone, least of all Harry. He cares for him deeply enough that he hopes he will never lose his spark, his joy, no matter where he is in the world. He hopes that Harry will always remain Harry. 

“Thanks,” Harry whispers. 

When they part, Harry looks ashen, forlorn, not like a man about to embark on another adventure to find his lost love. It puzzles Louis, but he doesn’t have the energy to figure it out; Louis feels like Harry looks. He can’t stand there any longer, his knees weak, so he smiles tightly and retreats back into the hotel, his head hanging down as he watches his feet carry him, step by step. There’s a part of him that wants to look back at Harry, wave to him one last time, but Louis supposes he has his limits. He doesn’t have the strength in his heart to do it. 

He unlocks the door to his room, dumps his stuff on the floor, and then sits down on the end of the bed, a bag of vanquished bricks. Staring down at the journal in his hands, he remembers the day he first found it, lost and lonely beneath a shelf of paints. And now it’s his again, a parting gift. Louis cracks it open just to hurt himself and when the pages split, the napkin gazes up at him. His number, his note that Harry will never receive now. It seems like a cruel twist of fate that Harry should give this to him, nothing left to hold onto that will remind him of Louis. It’s the last nail in the coffin and Louis closes his eyes, sighs out so hard and long he feels his body shake. He closes the sketchbook. 

There’s only one thing left to do. He changes out of his jeans and into a pair of loose shorts that aren’t really meant for swimming, but will serve the purpose anyway. As he folds the denim over his arm, he hears something fall, rattle as it bounces across the floor. It takes only a second for his eyes to find the piece of sea glass, winking at him from the corner of the room in brilliant green. Louis makes to retrieve it and then stops himself. He’ll get it later, if he remembers. And if not, well. It’s no different than Harry giving away the napkin with no thought when he’d toted it from Seattle to San Diego. Right now, Louis doesn’t want to think about the beach, doesn’t want to think about Harry’s eyes. 

At the pool, he orders overpriced drinks, blowing most of the extra cash he’d made from Beth. It’s unwise, he has no idea how long it will take him to find a solid gig in Texas, but he finds he doesn’t care at all. He still hurts, can still feel all his open wounds, so until he feels nothing, he’ll keep sipping on weak drinks made with tequila. He’s not far from the Mexico border after all. The more he drinks, the less his brain seems to spin, slowing down so he can make sense of everything in his head. For the first time, he can see his feelings plainly. 

He’d fallen in shallow love with Harry. Brand new love that comes in the first weeks of knowing someone, when they can do no wrong, no harm, but instead light up the universe like they’ve pulled the string to a lone lightbulb. He can see it as clear as the pool water in front of him, bright blue from the lining. There’s a part of him that regrets not telling Harry. He can feel it digging like a splinter in his ribs. Perhaps if he had, he would have had his shot, a chance to compete for Harry’s affection. But then Louis remembers who he is, what he does. He has nothing to offer Harry, just a lonely guy on the road with a truck he cares about more than most people. Harry’s boy probably has some fancy job in a gallery, a home or a nice flat, stability . Louis’ got the road. 

No, Louis tells himself. It wasn’t meant to be. Harry had come into his life by chance and somehow along the way, taught him some valuable things about himself. He’d taught him the value of companionship, of trusting someone else enough to be vulnerable. That he doesn’t have to suffer his life alone and be a victim to his own loneliness. They are things Louis’ not sure he ever would have learned on his own. He can’t look back at Harry with regret; he must look forward like he always has, recall him as a happy memory, a chapter of his life that deserves all the same fondness he’d looked at Harry with their whole journey. 

The next time Louis looks up, night has fallen. He’s been sitting on the same pool chair all day, an empty drink in his hands that’s melted to a sickly orange water. He has to pee something awful, so on unsteady legs, he stands himself up and wobbles back through the hotel, hoping to find his room. He never did go for that swim. 

It takes longer than it should, but eventually he finds the right door, gets the keycard through the slot and spots the green lights blinking, granting him access. He stumbles to the bathroom, flipping lights on as he goes, none of them as bright as what Harry brought to his life. In fact, they’re depressing. He uses the toilet and washes his hands and when he steps back into the room, his eyes fall to the piece of forgotten sea glass. This time, he wants it. He bends down for it and nearly loses his balance, but once it’s in the safety of his hand, he drops into bed. 

He pinches it between his thumb and index finger, holding it to the light so that it loses its solidity and instead turns translucent. He can see flecks of dark green and gold in the glass, he can see summertime in northern California, the stars reflected back in all their constellations, he can see Harry’s laughter and wit and happiness. 

It really does look like Harry’s eyes , he thinks. The glass stays pressed in the nook of his palm as he closes his eyes. He can hear Harry in his head, laughing. 

“Don’t look so sad, cowboy.”

x

 

 

Whether by habit or force of nature, Louis wakes the next morning at dawn with a splitting headache. He rolls to his back and feels the hotel room shift one way, then the other, unbalanced. It makes him feel nauseous, but the pain in his head is worse, so he stays still, alternating between blinking and trying to focus on the ceiling light, still on. At least it distracts him from his heartache, back again with vengeance without the veil of alcohol. He rubs a hand across his chest and slowly sits up, the world righting itself. A silly, childish part of himself had hoped Harry would be there when he woke up, but the room is empty. Just himself and the velour wallpaper. 

He gets himself ready to go, move on with his life, tossing Harry’s sketchbook on top of his belongings. It’s then he realizes he’s lost the piece of sea glass, so he scours the rumpled covers for it, nearly tearing the bed apart. He finds it under his pillow, the tiny memento soothing his frantic heart once it’s back in the safety of his front pocket. He’ll be old and grey and still carrying around an ancient bit of sea glass. Louis already knows it’s true. 

The light is still faint when he walks outside the lobby. Rhoda’s windshield is frosted with overnight dew and for once, Louis is comforted by the sight of something rather than haunted. He swings his duffle into the backseat and slides his hands over the steering wheel as he sits. Inside the cab, tucked behind the misty windshield and windows, he feels truly alone, Harry’s seat empty. But it’s familiar, all he knows, and that brings a sense of solace to his unsettled, tormented life. He opens the map and decides his course forward, pointedly avoiding the highlighted routes he and Harry had taken. 

“Just me and you again, girl,” he says to the truck. 

And with that, he starts the engine, too loud in the deserted parking lot. Her wipers beat back and forth as they had in Seattle, clearing the condensation until Louis can see his way clearly. Onward then.

He shifts into drive and rolls slowly through the parking lot, his breath steady despite the monumental sigh of despair he wants to unleash. He feels like he’s grieving a loss, something that could have been great, but instead never got off the ground. It’s the only time in his life he’s felt a remarkable sadness in leaving something behind, the only time he’s ever wanted to hold onto the past. Even in Montana, it had felt right to move on. 

Louis’ foot finds the brake before his mind catches up, a shout behind him causing him to act. He sits straight and peers into the rearview mirror, spotting a solitary figure standing there, shoulders slumped in relief. Maybe an early morning housekeeper. He’s forgotten something. But when Louis swings his door open, steps out of the cab, all he can see is Harry, chasing him down across the lot and stopping just feet away. 

“Take me with you,” Harry breathes, breathless. 

Louis feels his throat close up, shaking his head in astonishment, confusion, the same words Harry had demanded of him back in Seattle. 

“Take me with you,” Harry repeats. “To Texas.”

Again, Louis shakes his head. “What about -“

“I didn’t go,” Harry cuts him off. “I didn’t go. I want you, Louis. You.”

Louis doesn’t know what to say. For all the thinking he’d done in the last 12 hours, he finds that he has no words, overwhelmed, afraid to believe. It seems too good to be true; his mind must still be drunk and playing tricks on him. 

“Say yes,” Harry pleads. 

Like Louis is capable of saying anything else. 

“Yes!” Louis laughs, nodding as fast as his head will move. 

Harry jumps on him, tilted forward on his toes even though he’s got several inches on Louis, just so he can get his arms fully around his shoulders. Louis hugs him back around the waist, his cheek crushed to the side of his neck. It takes Louis a moment, just held tight in Harry’s embrace, to fully process the significance of Harry’s words. That Harry never went to find his old flame, that he’d probably been right here at the Velario the whole time. That Louis had pushed him away when his eyes had begged him to let him stay. He understands Harry’s expression, his hesitance in their exchange yesterday. And in spite of it all, Harry’s still chosen him, chosen his nomadic lifestyle and long, hot days in a beat up old truck. 

For all the places Louis has searched, all the places he’s been, he finally holds home right in his arms. 

His lighthouse.