Atlas At Last

Chapter 3

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2460 Miles To Go

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Louis wakes up the next morning with an elbow in his face. Like, not even a cute, cuddly, 'my arm is around you, just in a mildly bad position,' sort of way. No. Harry's knobby little elbow is doing whatever it can to wedge itself into Louis' eye socket.

All things considered, there are worse ways to wake up.

" Get— " A garbled, croaky groan tumbles from Louis' mouth as he shoves Harry away.

"Hmm?" Harry's voice is low and sleepy. Louis finally succeeds in rolling over halfway, wrinkling his nose at the feeling of humid sweat sticking to his t-shirt. Harry's elbow's taken up place on his own face now, the crook essentially resting just above the bridge of his nose. Eyes covered, he smacks his lips once or twice, obviously still asleep. Louis sort of wants to burrow his face into the space under his chin. He restrains himself. Barely.

"Hey." He kicks his knee forward, nudging Harry's thigh. No sign of life. The watch on Harry's dangling wrist reads 9:00 AM. " Hey ," he kicks again, more forcefully this time. Another sleepy moan slips from Harry's mouth, and he rolls over, body twisting into what has to be an uncomfortable position. Louis' stretched out on his side, and Harry's nose is now all but pressed smack up against his chest.

He feels a puff of hot air through his t-shirt and is forced to physically close his eyes and count to ten, unsure of what emotion he's so vividly feeling.

Another puff of air sets his arm hair on end. "Need coffee," Harry mumbles.

"Look who's alive," he replies, voice much softer than his 'heys' from before.

"Coffee," Harry repeats, unmoving.

"Uh," Louis shifts, lifting his torso up to peer out the window. They'd pulled off in the middle of nowhere the evening before. Hadn't really considered getting to a 'good' stopping point, just stopped when Louis' eyes started burning with sleep. "I don't know how close we are to a diner or anything, H." A single brownish car flies past.

"Coffee." Harry's nose is now pressed firmly against Louis' chest.

For a brief moment, Louis contemplates what he would do if at some point during this trip Oli or Stan had sleepily demanded coffee over and over again.

Probably kick them in the nads.

With a deep sigh, he clamors to his knees and into the front seat. Harry just rolls onto his tummy, hair a complete bird's nest, and quietly smacks his lips once more before falling back asleep.

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After ten minutes, one exit, and at least fifteen more minutes spent puttering through sleepy town after sleepy town, they finally arrive at a place a very cranky Harry has graciously deemed fit for coffee consumption.

Only the appearance of coffee, first a cup while sat at the diner counter as they picked through runny eggs, and then another each in little paper to-go cups, has coaxed Harry back into the front seat. True, he still looks more dead than alive with his puffy, red eyes, and he's probably ten minutes from going under again, what with the way his knees are pulled into his chest, feet on the seat, but Louis doesn't really mind. Doesn't mind at all even.

There is, however, one thing he does mind.

"Right," Harry says flatly, cup clutched tight in his hands. "We need to head right."

"I'm pretty sure it's left, man," Louis corrects him. When Harry makes a disparaging noise, Louis shoots him a look. "What? How do you even know? You were comatose in the back." He flicks the turn single left.