Chapter Text
Harry hitches his swim trunks up a little higher as he walks down La Rambla. He's just come from the beach, and the bottoms of his shorts are still heavy with seawater, sinking lower on his hips with every step he takes. There's so much to see - buckets of flowers, racks of fruit, trays of brightly colored candies. There are people painted bronze, posing like statues in the middle of the walkway, and there are patterned tiles underfoot, undulating gently like waves, and carts and kiosks selling food and drinks and all sorts of touristy items flanking both sides of the street.
He's only been in Barcelona for about twenty hours, the first stop on his pre-uni tour of Europe, but he's determined to get in the habit of sending home postcards and small knick knacks for his mum and sister as often as possible.
Overwhelmed by the sheer number of kiosks and storefronts, Harry picks one at random and shoulders the door open as he pulls his shorts up again. It's warm in the shop, and it's crammed with merchandise, from the usual t-shirts and snapbacks and miniature replicas of tourist attractions to hand woven blankets and jewelry made from local stones. He stops at a table littered with hemp necklaces and charms for bracelets and picks up a pair of earrings carved out of coral.
He's trying to decide between two different pairs when a voice says from behind him, "I think the red is more your color, mate."
Harry whirls around, earrings rattling against their plastic holders, to find a boy smirking at him, blue eyes twinkling in the sun streaming in through the windows. Harry clears his throat.
"They're for my sister."
The boy hums and edges closer so that he can peer down at the options. "Well, the red is nicer than this color here." He grabs the peach-colored ones out of Harry's hand and sets them back on the rack. "Are you dead set on that design though? Because it's a bit trite, if you ask me."
Harry stares dumbly down at the little red starfish. He'd thought they were kind of cute, and appropriate, considering they had come from the Mediterranean Sea.
"I guess not," he mumbles.
"What about these?" Harry turns to see the boy holding up a pair of red coral raindrop earrings framed in silver. "They're simple, but that means they'll be appropriate for a wider range of occasions, you know? Starfish are kitchy. These your sister can pair with a nice dress and wear to a cocktail party, or with a pair of jeans and wear to the park."
Harry hums thoughtfully and reaches a hand out so he can touch a fingertip to one of the earrings. He darts his gaze back to the boy, who's watching him expectantly, a hint of a self-satisfied smile curling his lips. "Do you work here?"
The boy snorts. "Hardly. I'm on vacation, like you. I was just in here looking for a new pair of flip flops, as mine broke this morning. Apparently, they were too fragile to go walking in the surf."
He shrugs nonchalantly, and Harry looks down, sees that he's not wearing any shoes at all.
"I'm Louis, by the way."
He looks back up, sees that Louis is holding a hand out to shake. Harry wipes his hand on his trunks, suddenly nervous, then remembers that they're still wet.
"Sorry," he mumbles as he places his damp hand in Louis'. "I'm Harry."
"Well, Harry," Louis says briskly. "Are we settled then?"
He wiggles the earrings. Harry bites his lip and looks back at the rack of jewelry, uncertain. His eyes are still drawn to the little starfish, but Louis is probably right.
"Sure," he says with a sigh, and Louis answers him with a bright smile.
"Fantastic! Anything else you wanted to pick up for your sister? Mum? Girlfriend?"
Harry blinks. "Don't you think it's a bit soon to be fishing for information like that, Louis?"
Louis just grins cheekily at him and shrugs again. "Never too soon, young Harold. Come on, let's see what else this shop has to offer."
He tucks the earrings into his palm and leads Harry down the aisle, pausing to browse through the selection of sandals.
By the time they stumble out of the shop, Harry's got a bag filled with the coral earrings, a shot glass, a pair of ridiculously large sunglasses that Louis insists draw attention away from his hair (Harry's not sure whether to be insulted or grateful for that one), and one of each postcard they had offered, and Louis is wearing a brand new pair of thongs and a brightly printed sarong, wrapped around his neck like a scarf. Harry scratches some dried salt off his stomach as he adjusts to the sunlight after the dimmer lighting of the shop.
"Hey, do you know where there's a post office around here?"
Louis purses his lips and looks up and down the street. "Yeah, I think.... I was here yesterday, and I found one on one of the side streets. Sent a few postcards back home. I don't remember the name of the street, but I'll know it when I see it. Come on, let's go find it."
He grabs Harry's hand and tugs him along, weaving expertly through pedestrians, eyes darting back and forth as they come up to different intersections. Harry tries not to think about how he's holding hands with a boy he's known all of thirty minutes. For all he knows, Louis could be a serial killer that prowls the tourist spots looking for easy targets. His mum had warned him before he'd left, worried that Harry's trusting nature would be dangerous when traveling alone, but something tells him that he doesn't need to worry about Louis.
It takes nearly an hour of wandering up and down La Rambla until Louis recognizes a delicatessen (Harry swears they've passed that shop about four times, but he isn't about to tell Louis that) and they turn onto a shady side street. Sure enough, there's a sign for the post office a few doors down, and they push inside, find a small square of counter space so that Harry can scrawl messages on the backs of the postcards, then stuff them, the earrings, and the carefully wrapped shot glass into a box and address it to home.
He lobs the empty bag into a trash bin as they leave the post office, and they pause in front of the building, facing each other. Louis shuffles his feet on the pavement, soles scuffing noisily against the ridges in the cement, and Harry watches him as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his shorts and hunches his shoulders.
"So," Louis starts, then sucks his bottom lip into his mouth.
"So," Harry repeats, amused and curious.
"D'you..." Louis pauses, jerks his head to the side so that his fringe swings out of his eyes. It's too dark in the shadow of the buildings to make out the blue of his eyes, but Harry can tell that Louis is looking up at him through his lashes. "Do you want to go get some coffee or something? There's a cafe the next street over that serves coffee with ice cream in it."
Harry smiles. He's only known Louis for about two hours, knows nothing about him past his first name, but he's nice and sarcastic and helpful and so, so pretty. And Harry's still got a few days left in Barcelona, and he thinks he wouldn't mind spending them with Louis.
"Sure."
“So,” Louis prompts as they sit at a table in front of the cafe. It’s gorgeous out - bright and sunny and breezy, and Harry waits for Louis to continue, watches Louis tip his head back and raise his face toward the sun briefly. He’s gorgeous - tanned skin stretched over high cheekbones and an angular jaw dusted with stubble, thick lashes casting sooty shadows over the tops of his cheeks. Harry stares unabashedly, doesn’t look away when Louis lowers his head and turns his attention back to Harry, an eyebrow quirked in amusement.
“So,” he repeats. “What’s your deal?”
“My deal.”
Louis nods. “What’s a kid like you doing in Barcelona by yourself?”
Harry snorts. “I’m eighteen, thanks. I finished college and wanted to do a bit of traveling before uni, you know?” Harry props his chin in his hand and gives his coffee a stir with the other. “What about you?”
“I just finished my second year of uni, decided I needed a break, even if it was just for the summer. So I packed a bag, left my flatmate a note, and bought a ticket to Spain. Been here three days.”
“Are you just staying here, then?”
“Nah.” Louis shrugs and takes a sip of his coffee, licks off the ice cream mustache it leaves behind. “I’m making my way east. I don’t really have a plan, though. Been waiting for the right time to move on. A sign, if you will.”
Harry cocks his head, drops his gaze to where he’s drawing lines in the condensation on his glass. “What do you reckon it’ll be, this sign?”
“Hmmm, I dunno.” Louis’ tone is teasing, and when Harry looks up at him, the corners of his mouth are curved up into a coy smile. “I’ll know it when I see it, though.”