Transcontinental Overload

“You look like you could use this.”

Noémie looked up from her copy of Vogue Paris with a cocked eyebrow, knowing Harry’s voice like the back of her hand. His was always the one she picked out in a crowd, the one she heard louder than everyone else’s. Now was no different as he stood in front of her with a cheeky grin, his hands occupied with a large iced coffee and a croissant wrapped in wax paper.

“Croissants are French too, aren’t they?” If it were possible, the size of Harry’s grin doubled.

Noémie sighed, stuffing her magazine into her carry-on. She’d been looking forward to that issue for months, had nearly salivated in anticipation over the Aurélie Claudel spread Vogue had been teasing, but Harry was right. Their flight to New Zealand was originally meant to depart around 10-o’clock the night before, but something had come up and it was now nearing daybreak with no word from the producers. Noémie hadn’t slept a wink.

So she accepted Harry’s offerings with a small smile. “Thank you, ‘Arry,” she said, though it was hard to seem genuinely thankful when her eyelids felt like anchors.

They were nearing the midway point of their travels, and the exhaustion was finally starting to catch up with everyone. The boys were used to it, had probably been pushed even harder than this at the peak of their career, but the most traveling Noémie had done in succession couldn’t compare to this. Her body seemed to reject the time differences and she felt a permanent state of jet lag.

But no one else complained so she didn’t, either. Sure, she hadn’t slept properly since they’d left Grenoble, but she never thought in a million years she’d see a place like Kuala Lumpur. New Zealand, Australia, and the southern United States, too.

The only negative was constantly having to deal with a certain Harry Styles. He’d somehow attached himself to her hip, following her everywhere and always partnering up with her when they had to do things in pairs. It wasn’t that Noémie particularly disliked Harry; he was actually quite kind and charming when he wanted to be. But she’d always preferred to do things on her own and required ample amounts of alone time, which Harry refused to allow her. He was suffocating, even though he had nothing but good intentions.

“Have you ever been to New Zealand?” he asked, his mouth stuffed with whatever pastry he’d bought for himself.

“Non. ‘Ave you?”

Harry nodded. “Few times, yeah. Greg said it’s nearly an eleven-hour flight, though.”

Noémie groaned after doing the math in her head. They wouldn’t land in Auckland until at least nine at night, so there was little point in sleeping on the flight. Plus, thanks to Harry’s coffee, sleep wouldn’t come easily anyway.

Harry joined her as she wandered the airport in search of a bookshop. Occasionally he’d get stopped by a fan to pose for a photo or to sign an autograph, but mostly everyone traveling at five AM were the businessman type. If they had any idea who Harry Styles or One Direction were, they didn’t make a show of it.

The pair returned to their gate with half a dozen bags—five of which belonged to Harry. He’d squealed whenever he saw something that reminded him of one of the boys and he’d pick it up, all the while talking a mile a minute about how much Liam had been looking forward to that book, and how Zayn would probably keel over and die when he saw what Harry had bought him. Noémie could barely keep up, and shrugged sheepishly when Louis asked what she’d bought and all she held up were three more fashion magazines and a bar of chocolate.

Greg finally called them to board at six. Either by divine intervention or the aid of caffeine, everyone was in good spirits. The first hour and a half of the flight was filled with excited chatter. May was getting asked a million questions per minute as the group wondered what kinds of adventures awaited them at their next stop. Truth be told, between the conversation and jokes, Noémie forgot all about her lack of sleep.

Until Harry turned green, anyway.

“Haz, you don’t look so good, mate,” Niall said, eyeing his bandmate with trepidation.

Louis pulled a face somewhere between pure terror and sheer disgust. “Seriously, Harry—if you’re gonna have a sick, get the hell away from me when you do it.”

Zayn eyed both of them with disappointment. “He’s honestly about to be sick and you two are taking the piss out of ‘im. Here, Harry,” he said, handing over a small bag. “For…you know—”

“Vomiting,” Louis finished. He tried his best to look sympathetic.

That’s how the final nine hours of the flight played out. Harry spent most of them locked in the airplane bathroom while his bandmates talked as loudly as they could to cover the sound of his retching. Niall even broke out his acoustic guitar and led the boys in a song they aptly named “What Makes You Have a Sick.” Liam decided it’d go platinum and be a Top 40 hit.

And if Noémie thought dealing with a motion-sick Harry Styles was bad, finally arriving at the hotel only to find out the producers had forgot to book her a room was even worse. She’d put off sleeping on the plane so she wouldn’t throw off her body’s schedule (and she might’ve been worried about Harry, but only because no one else was reminding him to keep drinking water so he wouldn’t get dehydrated) and was bordering on sleep deprivation. Luckily, Louis had been given his own room and offered her the spare bed after promising there’d be no funny business.

Except there was no reprieve there, either. Louis was a talker. He might’ve been worse than Harry, and that was saying a lot because most times you couldn’t pay Harry to stop talking.

As they both laid in the pitch black of the hotel room, the sounds of Auckland a muted soundscape through their open window, Louis asked Noémie if she was still awake.

“Oui, Louis.”

He giggled at the unintentional rhyme. “Are you having fun?”

Noémie turned onto her side, now facing the boy opposite her. “Yes. Are you?”

“Yeah, it’s just…” He sighed, pulling the duvet over his head to hide his warming cheeks. “It’s just that, like—okay, do you go on the internet a lot?” Before Noémie could answer, Louis started up again. “Stupid question. What I’m getting at is: Do you know how…crazy, I guess is the best way to describe it. Do you know how crazy things are for us?”

“Because you are very famous?”

“Yeah,” Louis said, his words muffled by the duvet barrier. “And, like, we love our fans. We really, truly do. They’re brilliant and they support us no matter what. It’s just…they love us. Everyone else is, like, fair game.”

Noémie’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Did you know there are entire sections of the internet dedicated to proving Harry and I are in a relationship?”

“Are you?” Noémie asked.

“What?” Louis spluttered, throwing the blanket off his upper body to glare at her. “No! But there are people who believe it. And I’d dated a girl for a few years and…I don’t get it, Noémie. How can our fans love us so much yet be so cruel to the people we love?”

“I do not know, Louis,” she answered honestly. “What does that ‘ave to do with now? Are you worried about something?”

Louis sighed. “I’m worried about a lot of things, love. I think all of us are. This show…it’s for publicity’s sake, mostly. I’m sure management is expecting a few relationships out of this, and it’s…it’s not fair, you know? To ask that of you.”

“I think the right person would be willing to endure it, no?”

“Maybe,” Louis shrugged. “It’s still not fair. They tell us who we can and can’t be seen with, who to date, who to be photographed with. It’s just…they’ve been monitoring our relationships for so long I’m scared I wouldn’t know something genuine if it came up and bit me in the arse.”

Despite her heavy eyelids, Noémie smiled. She could see right through Louis, see between the lines he’d been skirting around. “I think you underestimate yourself, Louis. Now get some sleep.”