got the sunshine on my shoulders

Part 1

It's raining.

Of course it's fucking raining.

"Niall," Harry grumbles into the phone, holding on to it with one hand while he tries to figure out how to turn the wipers on. "When I said 'something inconspicuous', I didn't mean a Ford Fiesta."

"What's the problem?" Niall asks on the other end. He sounds like he's sipping something, the bastard, and the faint hum in the background can only be waves washing onto a beach. "It's a sensible car. I thought you didn't want anyone to recognise—"

"It's too low," Harry interrupts. He's not ready for another lesson, not with the journey he's just had. "The water, it's—it's everywhere. I'm going to aquaplane and flip into a ditch, and then you'll be out of a job."

His voice is a little shrill for the microscopic interior of the car. He wishes he could help it. Stay calm, stay calm, stay fucking calm—

Niall takes a deep breath. "Listen to me," he says. "Put your useless feet on the pedals and drive."

"But I don't want to," Harry whines. One corner of his mouth twitches; he's being such a brat.

"You're a baby," Niall says, dry. "I'm giving you ten seconds to hang up and start driving, or I'll call Peter and tell him to fly over there."

"No security," says Harry sharply. He's gone over this so many times it's more of a mantra, really. "No security. I'm going."

"Good," Niall replies. He's grinning, judging by his tone. Harry hopes, only briefly, that he'll drown in whatever sea is causing the soothing noise on his end of the line. "Don't call me until it's done. Do you hear me?"

Harry sighs. "I hear you—"

"Do not. Call me."

"You should be a motivational speaker," Harry says, finally turning the correct wheel to get his wipers flying over the windscreen. A Ford. For God's sake.

"Bye, Harry," Niall replies, makes a noise that sounds vaguely like an air kiss, and then the line is dead.

Harry sighs, again, and the car rumbles underneath him like it's getting annoyed. It also might simply be on the verge of giving out – he's got the headlights on even though it's three in the afternoon, and the vents are blasting hot air. His bum is still bitterly, bitterly cold; as it turns out, heated seats do not come standard with this glamorous model.

His mobile buzzes in his hand. Start driving!!!!!!!!!!!!! the text says. By the time Harry unlocks his phone, another one has come in – this time a picture of Niall grinning on a sun lounger, dark sunglasses on his nose and his cheeks already pink.

WEAR SUNSCREEN, Harry writes back. He throws his phone in the backseat, too worried he'd cave and call himself a taxi if he kept it close, and fiddles with the radio instead. It's afternoon commute time – every station he can get out here is playing the top 40. More than once, his own voice crackles back at him from the speakers. Usually, he'd enjoy it. He does still get that little bubble of pride in his chest when he's reminded of all these things he's accomplished.

Today, though. Today, even the opening chord feels like a vice around his throat.

Harry abandons the radio and leans back in his seat, trying to breathe. The rain is coming down harder now, lashing against the windows, blurring the outlines of the world outside – except for the sign that Harry knows stands proudly in the distance, every last letter of it burned into his memory.

Holmes Chapel, Twinned with Bessancourt. Please drive slowly through the Village, except the r and v have come off a long time ago.