Chapter Text
the road was so dimly lighted
there were no highway signs to guide
but they made up their minds
if all roads were blind,
they wouldn't give up 'till they died
the road gets dimmer and dimmer
sometimes you can hardly see
but it's fight, man to man,
and do all you can,
for they know they can never be free
— Bonnie Parker
'The Story of Bonnie and Clyde'
-
The city air is dry and remorseless on these winter nights. The artificial glow his mobile screen illuminates his jaded features as he paces on the street corner, a free hand fiddling with the zipper of his grey jumper. He's tall and gangly, still all endless limbs, knocked knees and pigeon toes. There's hardly anything worth mentioning about the way he nibbles the cracked skin of his bottom lip, nor the way he visibly shivers whenever a strong gust of wind whips in his direction. But for whatever reason he remains a sight to behold, especially for Louis's sore eyes. The head of thick tangled curls is what makes him most desirable, Louis thinks. His hair is so wild and overgrown while his face exudes some prevaricated virginity. He's this ethereal amalgamation of a cherub and a dryad with lips that whisper of a thousand eve's, eyes estranged and soul devoid of innocence.
Louis watches the boy through the glass window of the pub across the street. He slides a chip into his mouth, the leather seat squeaking as he shifts in the booth. Harry doesn't do anything for a while. He checks his watch, cups his palms against his mouth, eyes darting left to right every now and then. Louis wonders what the boy is thinking.
It isn't long after that a bearded man slinks up to his boy in trackies and a windbreaker. The man is enigmatic to Louis - he can't even find it in himself to formulate an explanation for his appearance tonight but Louis has decided the man looks like a Jeffrey although his profile screams something more feeble, fragile like maybe his mother named him Nolan. He doesn't look confident, is almost hesitant to engage once Harry identifies him from the other people meandering about the block. But that's alright, Louis supposes. This life is not for everyone.
Cars speed past the windows of the restaurant, disrupting his view but he's watching avidly as the two make their exchange. Louis hasn't got a clue what either of them are saying, though he does know what it's somewhere along the lines of. Harry will bite his lip and lean up, will whisper hotly against the shell of Jeffrey's ear exactly what he's going to do to him because it's not so much about the transaction as it is about the sex.
Harry moves closer toward the stranger and smiles, flirtatiously plays with the gold chain around his pale throat. His skin glitters beneath the moonlight, eyes twinkling with daunting demure. He is utterly captivating like an archaic folklore, unveiling every one of his intricate layers with an unmatchable percussion. Louis knows how good Harry is at what he does but it's a rarity he really gets to sit back, observe, and appreciate the art of seduction.
Harry is a youthful coquette, manipulative and easily excitable, delicate, yet hubristic like vibrant tulips budding in the vernal dawn. He makes every person he comes in contact with feel significant; he listens intently and touches lightly and relates genuinely as if all thoughts and feelings and motivations are valid. Grendel could have his empathy, for the boy learned first to get along with the monsters beneath his bed. Harry plays his games to win. It's all effortless trickery—Louis knows, but Harry is just so fucking brilliant and he can't believe how lucky he is sometimes.
Harry talks gently to this man, operating with a safe length of distance between them for a few moments before he gradually encroaches on the stranger's personal space. The man allows it, doesn't seem to mind when Harry takes a hand out of his jacket pocket and runs his fingertips across the man's forehead, smoothening the wrinkles of uncertainty. Jeff likes the attention.
Louis takes a sip of his drink, wipes his mouth with his napkin and when he looks back across the street, Harry and the man are nowhere in sight. He blinks at his reflection in he window, sighs until his warm breath fogs the glass.
He doesn't register the time that passes after that. He's staring at his phone screen, idly checking the weather for the next three days when a brisk evening draft hits the back of his neck. In the subconscious mind Louis feels it, however his senses don't configure until Harry is sliding into the seat in front of him, shucking his jacket down his shoulders.
"How was it?" Louis half-hazardedly inquires, doesn't bother looking up because he knows the expression Harry is wearing. It's the same look he's had the past two years they've been doing this together.
"Disgusting. 'Smelled like he just came from the gym," Harry picks up the menu and gives it a once over, chewing the inside of his cheek.
"Punters always smell like shite. No respectable bloke pays to get his cock sucked," Louis mutters cynically. Harry chuckles brightly, wagging a finger at Louis.
"Not true. Everybody wants their cock sucked now and then, Lou," Harry smacks his gum. He's got an impish delight coloring his features, a dainty curl about his lower lip and Louis still doesn't know what to make of it— the way Harry always goes a bit off the rails after meeting with a customer. His childish ambitions are sharpened, emotions more acute. Louis often wonders how someone so beautiful could be so twisted in the same respect.
The waitress shimmies over to the table, replaces Louis's glass for a refill and takes Harry's order. It's just past midnight, Harry tells him with a quick glance at his watch. They have a long night ahead and Louis wants to make sure Harry's had enough to eat before they leave.
"Oi, did you manage to get it this time?" He remembers suddenly, smoothing his hands together. Harry glances around the nearly vacant pub, his pupils broad and frenzied as if this were a covert operation before he nods, arching his brow. He laughs as he fumbles through his jacket pocket, pulling out a worn leather wallet and tossing it onto the table.
"Good boy," Louis breathes, reaching across the table and retrieving the prized item. As much as it fascinates Harry, the semantics of what they do, Louis knows he doesn't understand what comes next. They have to stay under the radar. If Jeff reports this to the police, they're most likely going to review places in close proximity of the crime, and if two suspicious characters waving a wallet around a pub doesn't qualify as suspicious, Louis doesn't know what will.
Louis quickly closes it and stuffs it into his back pocket just as the waitress brings Harry his meal. Harry must be hungry; Louis can't remember the last time they had a proper sit down meal. The boy frivolously plucks his spearmint gum from his tongue and sticks it onto the brim of Louis's glass. The older man tuts in disgust, but Harry winks at him and suddenly, somehow it's okay.
Without another word Harry's digging into his food, shoveling chips into his mouth, sucking salt from his fingers, lapping ketchup out of the corner of his mouth. Harry's always been cloudy eyed and ignorant like a child. He doesn't know when to stop, when to second guess himself because he's being judged by the eyes of a population. For all Louis knows, he likes the attention. For Harry, it's probably more comfortable to be watched than to be ignored.
But Harry is graceful in his gracelessness, has an elegant and calculated way of offense, like noxious fumes. He understands his innate need to be the center of attention more than he grasps the social implications of appearing uncultured. He doesn't give a fuck about society, or moral constructs and Louis couldn't have picked a more suitable partner. Sometimes Louis likes to sit back and admire the way he breathes, the bob of his throat when he swallows, the way he curls a loose strand of his hair back behind his ear just because his very axiom of existence is so unabashedly alluring.
And it doesn't help that Louis keeps him up all hours of the night like he's been doing. These late nights always give Harry a rush, always remind him of the days before they met, where hustling was his only source of income. For some reason Harry likes feeling bad, likes knowing others are looking at him and shaking their heads in disgust because they think they have people like him all figured out.
Louis feels a bit sad about it, in retrospect. He knows the tangled abyss of thoughts that run through Harry's mind each day. Louis is familiar with the empty void in Harry's eyes, knows behind that dimpled smile lies a broken soul, a bleeding heart (he thinks it's amusing to watch a corpse try to walk among men).
He sighs, rolling his fingers around the tiny capsule in his pocket.
"I've got something for you," Louis decides, succumbing to the pressure of his guilt. He slips his hand out of his jumper to reveal a little capsule of fine, ebony powder. He places it on the table and slides it toward to younger. Harry peers up from his burger, their eyes meeting. Louis fights back a smile, can already feel the pride bubbling up in the back of his throat. And it's sick, that manipulating Harry makes his anger subside.
Harry puts his sandwich down and wipes the grease on his back t-shirt, extending a set of courteous fingertips to pick it up. He holds it between his thumb and his index, staring at the tiny granules in disbelief.
"Aw, for me?" Harry's eyes sparkle, sounding all too smug. Louis purses his lips; perhaps it wasn't the best idea to reveal it to him so soon. Louis had been looking for a good dealer for the past few weeks, someone who wouldn't sell them a bag of sugar and caffeine with the pretense of it being the 'real deal'.
"All for you, Baby," he smirks.
Harry stares at the bottle for a long time. It must be the way it's packaged that's getting him off so much - the way it's in a capsule instead of a bag like he's used to. Harry wouldn't mind either way as long as the product inside is truly going to provide him with the sensation he needs - but it just looks so different, almost professional and something in Louis's gut tells him the high is going to be well worth the money.
Louis isn't so sure when he became one of those characters you read about in the books. He told himself things would get better once they moved back up to Manchester, said he'd be able to drain enough money from bank accounts to keep them steady, then they would be able to rent a place using Maryanne's social insurance information and could send all the payments to Alexander Schmitt from Birmingham in West Midlands. But he's wasting all of the expertly conned earnings on sustenance to feed his partner's growing addiction.
When Louis thinks about it like that, a shiver surges up his spine because it makes him look and sound so fucking credulous, like he's just asking for all of it to blow up in his face. He knows not to let opportunities slip through his grasp. He knows it isn't safe to keep juggling different identities, hitchhiking, running from the law. He knows not to get comfortable sleeping in motel rooms and eating fast food with Harry because it's more than likely the boy will abandon him for the blow at some point. More importantly, Louis knows better than to get caught up in the black of Harry's bullet blown pupils. He himself doesn't really understand how those eyes became so addicting.
"Finish eating, we've got to leave soon," Louis reminds him. Harry snaps out of his trance, reluctantly resting his prize back down on the table. He eats quickly, eyes following Louis as he recollects the capsule and drops it into the safety of his coat pocket. Harry gives him a soft, yearning look as he does it, but Louis choses to ignore it, similarly to the way he choses to ignore the other serious implications of what they're doing.
Louis pays the bill with Jeffrey's debit card before the two of them head out into the night. His exhalation rises into the clouded skies as he rolls his shoulders and glances across the empty intersection.
Louis keeps track of all the credit, bank accounts and IDs he's obtained over the years. Most are of no use to him after twenty four hours when they realize what has happened - which is why he and Harry have to move quickly this evening. Jeff's bound to figure out he's missing something really important real soon.
"We need more condoms," Harry mumbles against his shoulder, breaking out into an infectious grin when he hears himself. He looks like an angel, his pale skin tinted pink as he clings to Louis's bicep. The wind blows his curls askew, makes him look quite younger than twenty-two.
Louis agrees, pushes his fingers in the spaces between Harry's as he moves in the direction of the nearest shop.
They purchase a lot of things. Harry already has a three thousand pound watch on his wrist, but that doesn't stop them from charging every card until it's maxed. Money is no object - simply an imaginary concept. They never have to suffer the consequences of stealing, never worry about struggling to keep up with any of the bills as they roll in. Louis lives for this feeling of false assurance and unfulfilled promises. He's been caught in this web since he was fourteen and he has no intentions of stopping now.
-
Their home right now is a crummy motel room on the good side of town. It's inexpensive, has a bathroom, a mini fridge and a telly. They move about the country often due to safety reasons since their means of survival aren't particularly sanctioned by law. So it may not be the mansion Louis dreamed of as a boy, but it serves it's purpose well enough. Harry used to sleep under a railway, so he certainly isn't complaining.
Louis helps him carry the bags into their room, then drops them on the floor in a pile among their scattered articles of clothing. They haven't done laundry in about a week and they're running out of clean shirts.
He leaps onto the bed and pulls his laptop out of its bag. He waits for it to warm up, watching Harry rifle through the numerous pieces of clothing on the carpet for something that smells clean.
Louis opens Jeff's wallet, learns his name is actually Henry, but it doesn't really matter what his name is. He takes everything out of the wallet, splays each card out on the bed. Harry easily snatches the tenner from the pile, biting his lip as their gazes lock. Louis smiles up at him, then refocuses his attention to his computer screen. He finds the bank website easily and gets to work on the passwords. Within the next ten minutes he's logged in as Henry B. Macintyre. Luckily, he's got several accounts open. His checking account consists of a meager five thousand pounds and Louis supposes that if they want to make use of that money they better do it quickly. Louis checks the status of the credit cards and isn't surprised to see that they're still active.
Harry stumbles out of the bathroom just as Louis closes his laptop and stands from the bed, collecting the three cards from the mattress. "Ready?"
"Yeah," he answers.
They head to the supermarket several blocks away and buy a couple of laptops and nine hundred pounds worth of gift cards. Louis buys a few boxes of bleach and hair dye because he's been paranoid about cameras even more as of late, and doesn't want his appearance to match any images the police may have of him. And Harry gets his flavored condoms because he insists it'll make giving blowies more interesting.
It's nearly dawn by the time they get back home. Louis figures the cards will be frozen by at least noon today and is already making mental plans for them to relocate some time next week. The police won't be able to trace them once they stop using the cards. By the time Jeff (Henry) is ready to go to the cops and admit that a pretty whore nicked his wallet while deep throating his prick (which isn't likely to happen soon) they'll already be halfway to Scotland.
"We gotta wash some clothes tomorrow... then pack it all up," Louis yawns after a minute, propping his weight back against the headboard. Harry faces the wall across the room, the pale plane of his back flexing as he yanks his shirt up and over his torso. Harry unzips his trousers, slowly pushing them down his this soft, smooth thighs. Louis's breath catches in the back of his throat, and he hates that he has to physically twist his neck before he'll look away.
Harry remains only in a thin pair of black boxers, and once he's brushed his teeth in the ensuite bathroom, he returns to the bed, crawling onto the mattress on his hands and knees. Louis can't help but stare at him, the way his muscles and bone ripple with each calculated movement.
"Yeah... then we go somewhere new," Harry hums, far too enthusiastically for someone of this lifestyle. Louis worries about him often, worries that Harry doesn't quite understand that what they're doing is something that could put the both of them away for the rest of their lives. Harry's always acting as if that's the goal here - like there isn't anything he'd rather be doing than running from city to city with Louis; selling his body and sacrificing his mind for just a taste of the fleeting intoxication.
"Up North... I'm thinking. We could head up to Leeds again. Only for a few days. Or if you're up for it we could try going even further, maybe to Carlisle," Louis drowsily suggests, pushing a few tangled curls out of Harry's face. Harry hums in affirmation, lowering himself onto his elbows.
"I'm always up to go further," He smirks, a suggestive twinkle in his eye. Louis huffs.
"It's gonna be cold as bollocks," Harry notes then, his eyes hooded as he reaches out to caress Louis's jaw, rubbing his knuckles against the scruff.
Harry wets his soft lips, thoroughly searching each feature of Louis's expression. The boy leans forward slowly, tilts Louis's head up and sucks a delicate kiss onto his lower lip. Harry pulls back, his mouth twitching with words unspoken as he curls his index finger down Louis's cheek.
"But I'd go anywhere with you, right?" he whispers, shifting a bit to lay comfortably on his side. He's facing Louis now, his cheek pressed against the pillow with lank ringlets of his lovely dark hair falling into his eyes, tangling in his lashes. Louis swears he can see every barren shred of Harry's soul like this, when he's calm and tender and the libidinous antics of the early evening have faded into the fog of tomorrow.
Harry strokes his back of his hand down Louis's bicep, continuing down to fold his fingers over the protrusions of Louis's pelvis. Harry's hands are warm and soft, ironically never calloused. His touch is feather light, yet so easily distracting.
"It's a two hour drive from here," Louis says, taking a mental note to fill up the tank in the car. They haven't really needed to drive much this week. Most places in this part of the city are within walking distance.
"Good thing I can't drive then," he says, the movement of his lips dusting across Louis's cheek. Louis smirks, though it's truly humorless. Being kicked out at sixteen isn't something to make sport of.
"You ought to let me teach you," Louis mumbles, his eyelids drifting shut. He can just barely feel the brush of Harry's lips against his skin.
"Maybe I will," Harry counters, his voice on the precipice of something besides their lighthearted banter.
Harry's thumb smooths over his chin, pushes up to graze his bottom lip. Louis parts his eyelids just a fraction to see what Harry's up to, to piece together what sort of thoughts are catching like a wild fire in his brain. Because it looks as if the words are boiling over at the back of his throat, threatening to spill.
"Hm?" he wonders, stretching out the hand that was curled against his chest, offering to cradle his skin. But Harry just shakes his head - as much as he can in this position. He glances down to Louis's lips, and without further sentiment, closes the distance between them, touching their lips in a soft kiss.
Louis melts into it, cupping his hand against the back of Harry's head, threading his fingers through his silken hair. Harry's mouth is warm and wet and he licks out against Louis's molars, moaning gently. They'll kiss like this for ages, sometimes. Harry knocks his nose against his when he readjusts the angle and the younger lad releases a breathless giggle, a long moment hanging between them before he pecks Louis's lips once more and pulls away. His mouth is the very abstraction of sin, lips bathed in a deep, glistening rouge and Louis feels heat flourish around his throat, a familiar ache settling in his stomach but he already knows, it's late, not tonight. Because Harry will push and push and push him and sometimes, Louis is just weak enough to push back.
"Okay?"
Harry makes a noise of confirmation, lashes fluttering when Louis presses his fingertips in the nape of Harry's neck.
"Sleep time, H,"
Harry inhales through his nose, his muscles moulding into the mattress. He slips a knee between Louis's legs, hides his face against Louis's neck. The heat of a body is something they both have learned to cherish. Louis knows how cold the streets can be. He can't imagine returning to such a life now that he's tasted the poison of companionship.
"Thanks, Lou," Harry breathes against his skin, lips ghosting along his jugular.
"For ...?"
"For taking care of us," Harry murmurs. And really, it's a silly thing to say. Louis would be doing this whether Harry was with him or not. In many ways, he is just letting Harry tag along, and taking advantage of the talents the boy has to offer. That's the way it feels sometimes. He doesn't really need Harry— like, when Harry finally decides to leave him, he'll be able to manage just fine. Harry only has one thing on his mind and Louis is constantly reminding himself not to get attached.
But Louis never says it aloud, because the last thing he needs is for the boy to get passionate, to try to deny it, and assure Louis that he's here to stay because his actions speak louder every time.