Snippet: Youth Hostel AU (Harry/Louis)
Dec. 16th, 2018 07:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
magicalrocketshipsANONYMOUS ASKED: Larry 5. Lonely
Originally posted here.
(AU where Louis and Harry meet by accident in a youth hostel one weekend. I had this whole story planned out but it never went anywhere, so here, have an attempt at the beginning of it)
“Why aren’t you with your friends?” Louis asks, sinking down onto the grass next to the boy with the curly hair. He’s just bought a Calippo from the shop down the road, and the juice is running down his fingertips and over the back of his hand. It’s so, so hot, and the ice lolly isn’t doing anything to reduce Louis’ body temperature to anything even vaguely beneath boiling fucking hot. Who’s fucking idea was this holiday, honestly. He’s just watched a group of lads troop onto a bus, laden down with rucksacks and walking socks. When they’d shown up last night, Louis had been sure this boy had been with them. Rather them than him, honestly. Walking, in this weather? Well, walking in any weather, but today was hot as hell.
“Dunno,” the boy says. He shrugs, and wraps his arms around his knees. They’re on the little hill round the back of the youth hostel, the pitiful shade from the apple tree over the back wall hardly stretching as far as their shoulders. “Didn’t fancy it?”
It’s not that a boozy post-A-level weekend in a youth hostel had been a bad idea exactly, more that when Louis and his friends had booked it back in May, it had been raining outside and really fucking miserable. The total lack of air conditioning or windows that didn’t actually open hadn’t made that much of an impact when they’d booked their beds.
Stupid, all things considered, because now, instead of a cheap alcohol fuelled weekend away, they were all slowly baking in their own skins, like potatoes in a campfire. Which, coincidentally, it was far too hot to actually have.
Louis never could sleep when it was hot, so whilst all of his mates snored away last night’s hangover, Louis was stuck trying to entertain himself in the arse-end of fucking nowhere, whilst slowly burning up from the inside.
“I’m Louis,” Louis says, holding out his sticky hand.
“Harry,” the boys says. He doesn’t grimace at Louis’ handshake.
“It’s your lucky day,” Louis says, “because I’m so bored my head might fall off, and it looks like you’ve got precisely nothing to do either, if your friends have all fucked off.”
“They’re not my friends,” Harry says, but he doesn’t look too distraught about it. Sad, perhaps.
Louis cocks his head to one side. “Really?” he asks. “Who goes away with people who aren’t their friends?”
“Thought I might try and make some new ones,” Harry says. He plucks at the grass by his feet with his fingertips. His hair falls into his eyes, and he pushes it back out of the way with one grubby finger. “This lot were my first attempt.”
“Take it from me,” Louis says sagely, because you can be sage if you’re doling out advice to good looking boys who are clearly younger than you, “if you’re in the market for new friends, you don’t want to pick the ones who decide to go rambling. That should be your first fucking sign they’re the wrong ones. Nobody likes a rambler, Harry.”
"I bought walking socks especially,” Harry says. He looks a little bit less sad, though.
Louis has achieved greatness, and it’s only nine-thirty on a Saturday morning. “A terrible waste of money,” he says. “Think how many Calippos you could have bought for the price of those socks.”
“I know that now,” Harry says. “What are you doing in the middle of the lake district if you don’t like walking, anyway?”
"Post A-levels drinking weekend with the lads,” Louis says. “Except they’re all passed out like losers, and I can’t fucking sleep.” He bumps the toe of his Vans into Harry’s bare foot. “What happened to your old friends, if you’re in the market for new ones?” He always had been inquisitive.
Harry shrugs. “You know,” he says. “You think everything’s great, but it’s not.”
That isn’t an answer. “That’s a terrible story,” Louis says. “I was going to give you the end of my Calippo, but you don’t deserve it now.”
“Fine,” Harry says. “I agreed to this stupid dare, and the police came, and everyone lied and said I did it by myself. Didn’t much feel like being friends with them after that.”
“Hence the ramblers,” Louis says.
“They’re practicing for their Duke of Edinburgh,” Harry says. “They practice all the time. I think they just like it."
"That’s a bit creepy, that,” Louis says. “Do you think they’re secretly pod people, out there right now, plotting our destruction?”
“Maybe,” Harry says. “Did you know there’s a stream at the bottom of the hill?”
“No,” Louis says. The very idea of a stream is quite delightful, because there’s the smallest possibility that it might be colder in the stream than it is everywhere else. He can only hope.
“I wanted to build a dam across it last night,” Harry says, “but the lads wanted to plan their route for today.”
“Literally the worst potential friends in the world,” Louis says. “Do you want to dam it now?”
When Harry smiles, his whole face lights up.
There’s a queer sort of feeling in the pit of Louis’ stomach. He clambers awkwardly to his feet, and holds out his hand to help Harry up. “Come on,” he says, trying not to show his confusion on his face. “Let’s go.”
“All right,” Harry says, and he doesn’t look quite so sad anymore, so Louis counts it as a win.
Originally posted here.
(AU where Louis and Harry meet by accident in a youth hostel one weekend. I had this whole story planned out but it never went anywhere, so here, have an attempt at the beginning of it)
“Why aren’t you with your friends?” Louis asks, sinking down onto the grass next to the boy with the curly hair. He’s just bought a Calippo from the shop down the road, and the juice is running down his fingertips and over the back of his hand. It’s so, so hot, and the ice lolly isn’t doing anything to reduce Louis’ body temperature to anything even vaguely beneath boiling fucking hot. Who’s fucking idea was this holiday, honestly. He’s just watched a group of lads troop onto a bus, laden down with rucksacks and walking socks. When they’d shown up last night, Louis had been sure this boy had been with them. Rather them than him, honestly. Walking, in this weather? Well, walking in any weather, but today was hot as hell.
“Dunno,” the boy says. He shrugs, and wraps his arms around his knees. They’re on the little hill round the back of the youth hostel, the pitiful shade from the apple tree over the back wall hardly stretching as far as their shoulders. “Didn’t fancy it?”
It’s not that a boozy post-A-level weekend in a youth hostel had been a bad idea exactly, more that when Louis and his friends had booked it back in May, it had been raining outside and really fucking miserable. The total lack of air conditioning or windows that didn’t actually open hadn’t made that much of an impact when they’d booked their beds.
Stupid, all things considered, because now, instead of a cheap alcohol fuelled weekend away, they were all slowly baking in their own skins, like potatoes in a campfire. Which, coincidentally, it was far too hot to actually have.
Louis never could sleep when it was hot, so whilst all of his mates snored away last night’s hangover, Louis was stuck trying to entertain himself in the arse-end of fucking nowhere, whilst slowly burning up from the inside.
“I’m Louis,” Louis says, holding out his sticky hand.
“Harry,” the boys says. He doesn’t grimace at Louis’ handshake.
“It’s your lucky day,” Louis says, “because I’m so bored my head might fall off, and it looks like you’ve got precisely nothing to do either, if your friends have all fucked off.”
“They’re not my friends,” Harry says, but he doesn’t look too distraught about it. Sad, perhaps.
Louis cocks his head to one side. “Really?” he asks. “Who goes away with people who aren’t their friends?”
“Thought I might try and make some new ones,” Harry says. He plucks at the grass by his feet with his fingertips. His hair falls into his eyes, and he pushes it back out of the way with one grubby finger. “This lot were my first attempt.”
“Take it from me,” Louis says sagely, because you can be sage if you’re doling out advice to good looking boys who are clearly younger than you, “if you’re in the market for new friends, you don’t want to pick the ones who decide to go rambling. That should be your first fucking sign they’re the wrong ones. Nobody likes a rambler, Harry.”
"I bought walking socks especially,” Harry says. He looks a little bit less sad, though.
Louis has achieved greatness, and it’s only nine-thirty on a Saturday morning. “A terrible waste of money,” he says. “Think how many Calippos you could have bought for the price of those socks.”
“I know that now,” Harry says. “What are you doing in the middle of the lake district if you don’t like walking, anyway?”
"Post A-levels drinking weekend with the lads,” Louis says. “Except they’re all passed out like losers, and I can’t fucking sleep.” He bumps the toe of his Vans into Harry’s bare foot. “What happened to your old friends, if you’re in the market for new ones?” He always had been inquisitive.
Harry shrugs. “You know,” he says. “You think everything’s great, but it’s not.”
That isn’t an answer. “That’s a terrible story,” Louis says. “I was going to give you the end of my Calippo, but you don’t deserve it now.”
“Fine,” Harry says. “I agreed to this stupid dare, and the police came, and everyone lied and said I did it by myself. Didn’t much feel like being friends with them after that.”
“Hence the ramblers,” Louis says.
“They’re practicing for their Duke of Edinburgh,” Harry says. “They practice all the time. I think they just like it."
"That’s a bit creepy, that,” Louis says. “Do you think they’re secretly pod people, out there right now, plotting our destruction?”
“Maybe,” Harry says. “Did you know there’s a stream at the bottom of the hill?”
“No,” Louis says. The very idea of a stream is quite delightful, because there’s the smallest possibility that it might be colder in the stream than it is everywhere else. He can only hope.
“I wanted to build a dam across it last night,” Harry says, “but the lads wanted to plan their route for today.”
“Literally the worst potential friends in the world,” Louis says. “Do you want to dam it now?”
When Harry smiles, his whole face lights up.
There’s a queer sort of feeling in the pit of Louis’ stomach. He clambers awkwardly to his feet, and holds out his hand to help Harry up. “Come on,” he says, trying not to show his confusion on his face. “Let’s go.”
“All right,” Harry says, and he doesn’t look quite so sad anymore, so Louis counts it as a win.
