Of the Earth

3

After Harry recollected Louis from his bathroom break, they resumed their seating on the rocks at the bend in the river and engaged in an easy-flowing conversation that entertained them for hours.

One topic cascaded into another in an effortless way, despite the fact that they had just met each other. Harry attributed most of the absence of difficulty to Louis, because he was just so easy to talk to. He was so worldly and he had something to say about every topic Harry brought up. He also wasn't afraid to admit when he didn't know about something and that made him all the more attractive to Harry, to know that he wasn't afraid to be honest.

"I can totally see you as an English major," Louis declared, eyeing Harry in a way that made him flush under the scrutiny, harmless as it was. "Reading Virginia Woolf while drinking black coffee. Speaking in metaphors. Correcting people's grammar. Oh, and cringing every time someone messes up the difference between lay and lie. Which is often."

"I always mess up lay and lie," Harry laughed, pretending to be triumphant. He didn't mean to be surprised that Louis knew about a common mistake even published authors tended to make, but he was. He couldn't help it. "But basically, yeah. Wide-framed reading glasses and everything. Did you know Margaret Atwood is the biggest asshole on earth?"

"Oh yeah?"

"She was a guest professor for one of my poetry classes and she was just awful. Everyone was scared shitless of answering questions because she would just glare at you and say, 'You're wrong,' with absolute disgust in her voice I'm still traumatized from that experience."

"Poor thing. Must've sucked 'cause I'm sure everyone idolized her."

"Yeah, definitely. We were all so excited and then she just destroyed all good feelings on the first day when she projected some of our poetry on the screen and completely tore it apart. Like, absolutely obliterated it."

"Did she do one of yours?"

Harry nodded, shuddering at the memory. "I think I cried for hours after that. And I haven't written a poem since."

Louis laughed, and then slapped his hand over his mouth, looking guilty for laughing. His eyes widened and he looked at him with a certain tenderness Harry had never experienced before, his gaze soft and apologetic. "You really haven't?"

"Nah, I have. Just being dramatic. Not about the crying, though. That definitely happened."

"You poor thing. I'll stay away from her work then. Not about to promote someone who crushes the dreams of young poets." His voice was mirthfull but there was a hint of something serious in it, like he actually felt indignant on Harry's behalf.

A silence fell over them and it was comfortable. Harry tilted his head back and looked up at the sky, the puffy clouds shaded by the descending sun, the beginnings of a colorful sunset. The world was shadowed in parts in golden in others. Harry shifted his gaze back to earth and found Louis was glowing.

"What're you looking at?" He smirked like he already knew.

"It's gonna rain soon," Harry said, instead of embarrassing himself with the answer they both knew was true: you .

They sat unspeaking for another moment as Louis took a turn observing the sky, the unassuming clouds, the grayness in the distance. Harry once again found himself distracted by staring at him, cataloguing his features which were slowly becoming familiar.

Backpacking worked like that, turning distant interpersonal relationships into something much more familiar, much more intense. The backcountry brought people closer together in a matter a days than society did in weeks or months and it was really something special.