925 miles | z.m. au

xi.

“Troubled spirits on my chest

Where they laid to rest”

—Of Monsters and Men

...

Liam hadn’t been lying. The gas station he worked at (which doubles as a mechanic shop and triples as a diner) had turned out to be exactly fifteen minutes up the road from Harry and Zayn’s Catastrophe. The fellow employees—who were nearly as dingy as the location—had given them funny looks when they first walked in but had ultimately shrugged when they spotted Liam. It mustn’t have been uncommon for him to bring strange, sketchy-looking guys like the two of them.

And that makes sense, Zayn figures as he picks at his sadly pulverized burger, because Liam seems the type. It hadn’t taken long for him to notice, really—that the brown-eyed boy was naturally giving and friendly and charitable; firstly, he offered them a ride; secondly, he laughed at every one of Harry’s ridiculous puns and it was universally impossible for him to find them at all hilarious; and thirdly, within the ten minutes that they were at the gas station he had offered them a free meal, a place to stay, and a deal on the engine repair. So, yeah, it makes sense.

“You know,” Harry says pointedly and Zayn is already rolling his eyes, “You haven’t eaten in nearly twelve hours. I know the burger is kind of grey-looking, but beggars can’t be choosers, yeah?”

And Zayn rolls his eyes again because Harry is a walking, talking file cabinet of old sayings and useless puns. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s not that it’s grey,” the raven-haired boy insists, picking at the bun, “’M just not hungry.”

“I think you are.”

“Oh. Alright then.”

Harry nods like this is crucial information, “You haven’t eaten in ‘bout twelve hours. It is physically impossible for you not to be hungry, so eat.”

“God, do you have a fucking countdown between meals or something?”

And Harry just shrugs, not at all affected by the plain annoyance in Zayn’s voice, “Just observant, unlike yourself.”

When Zayn rolls his eyes this time Harry just laughs, and the raven-haired boy wonders how they’ve become so close after only a few days on the road together. He has never had a plethora of friends, after all.

“Hey, you two good?” a quick voice asks from beside their table.

“Yeah,” the two say in unison—Zayn squeezes his eyes shut briefly when Harry fucking giggles.

Liam only smiles though—crinkly-eyed and overtly friendly. “So, I was talking to the head mechanic about your car.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And it’s gonna need ‘bout a day’s worth of work. A piece of the engine’s shot, mate,” he replies with a worried look, as if Zayn is incapable of handling such utterly distressing news. “But you’re more than welcome to stay here until it’s finished!”

Harry and Zayn’s gazes lock briefly before the curly-haired hitchhiker smiles, “Yeah, that’d be great actually. Thanks mate.”

...

Zayn figures it’s less of a house and more of a gathering hall, judging by the amount of people crammed into the rickety old building teetering off the edge of the gas station. He’s lost in a sea of people, many of whom are employees, and he applauds his past self for actually tolerating this kind of willing claustrophobic behaviour. And it’s outstanding—contemplating his teenage self—because he was absolutely insane, wasn’t he? He must have been to have constantly been punishing himself—crammed between bodies and mouths that smelled like stale beer.