They have been driving for little more than half an hour, and already Willas is wishing he'd never agreed to this.
Margaery and Sansa gossip incessantly - or rather, Margaery talks, and Sansa mostly nods and smiles, slipping in an appropriate comment here and there. They chatter inanely about Myrcella Baratheon, Joff's little sister, being sent off to some progressive, avant-garde boarding school that the Martell kids go to. Then, somehow, they move on to discussing Sansa's brother Jon, who's off on some outreach programme to help build homes for the poor in Brazil or somewhere. Apparently, travel and change are the discussion du jour. Willas mostly tunes them out, trying to focus on the notes he's jotting down in his little brown Moleskine.
Garlan and Leonette, predictably, are sickening. Leonette's sitting so close to Garlan that she's practically on top of him, and they shower one another with light kisses and whispers. They're blissfully happy, and Willas wants to be happy for them, but he can't help feeling that Garlan's a lot less interesting in the presence of Leonette, who turns him into a lovestruck, mooning idiot.
Loras and Renly are worse; they argue over which radio station to listen to, ending up jostling and grappling with each other in the middle-section of the yellow minivan until Renly pushes Loras back against the door and kisses him fiercely. Willas sighs irritably and wonders what that sort of passion feels like. It's not, he thinks, something he's ever felt before, about anyone.
"God, can you two please just not?" for once, Margaery says more-or-less exactly what Willas is thinking. "You're going to make me crash, or something."
"You don't have a problem with Garlan and Leonette -" Loras starts indignantly, pushing Renly away in a fit of pique. Oh, God, thinks Willas. Don't start.
Margaery sighs gustily. "Yes, because they're at least quiet," she retorts, as though that settles it. Sansa giggles.
"Don't complain, Marge," Renly says, laughing, "I'm distracting him, so you won't have to put up with his supposedly clever one-liners and general annoyingness. Think yourself luck- ow!" he breaks off, "What was that for? I was kidding!"
Willas closes his eyes and rests his head against the back of his seat, resisting the urge to make some barbed comment. He knows he's been unusually impatient, lately, and he knows, too, that perhaps he isn't being altogether far to his siblings. But the fact remains that they are all, in one way or another, getting on with what they want to be doing; finding their spot in life and settling happily into it. And he, meanwhile, is twenty-four years old and still living at home with his family, trawling through a novel it feels as though he will never finish writing, his spirits dampened by a steady stream of rejection letters for his various forays into short story writing. He feels purposeless and dissolute, and so far, rather than alleviating that persistent feeling, this journey is only making it worse.
-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-
Two hours into their trip, they stop at a service station and pile out of the minivan in search of drinks and food and magazines. Willas falls into step beside Sansa as they cross the car-park. It's a bright day, but muggy and airless. Sansa's pale blue blouse clings to her skin, bunching up a little at the bottom to reveal a thin band of creamy skin between chiffon and soft denim. She is no longer wearing the silver locket that used to settle in the hollow of her throat, he notices, and finds himself speculating that maybe Joff Baratheon gave it to her.
"Does Marge even know where she's going, d'you think?" he asks her, filled with a puissant need to make conversation - any conversation.
Sansa shakes her head. "She hasn't got any plans," she tells him, "I think we're going to get lost." She pauses, and then goes on in a rush, "You've been quiet. Is everything ok?"
He nods helplessly, because he can't explain these senseless, nameless feelings he's been having, but Sansa still looks dubious.
"Is it your book?" she tries, "Did you get turned down again?" She ducks her head; tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Margaery told me you hadn't been having much luck," she mumbles, apologetic.
Now Willas feels inexplicably guilty. "It's not that," he finds himself telling her, "Well, it sort of is, partly, I suppose. But that's not all of it."
They reach the blocky, red brick bulk of the service station and Garlan holds open the door for them. Sansa gives him a grateful smile and Willas offers a brief "Thanks".
The brief interruption heralds the return of that fumbling, guarded awkwardness. Willas, unsure of precisely how to tell Sansa that he doesn't feel like talking about any of this, drifts over to the newspaper and magazine rack and picks up a film magazine, turning it over absently in his hands. He's not even really interested in what's on at the cinema.
"You shouldn't worry."
Sansa's voice, at once hesitant and insistent, startles him and he looks up sharply, turning to face her.
"What?"
"About your book. You shouldn't worry. Someone will like it."
"Sansa, no offence, but how would you know? You haven't read it."
She tilts her chin upwards slightly. "I'd like to," is all she says, and he finds himself surprised. This is the most level - the most direct - she has been with him.
He considers this. "I don't think it'd be your kind of thing," he says finally, a little self-consciously perhaps, "It's historical fantasy. It's set in the French revolution."
"It sounds like the sort of thing Jon would like," Sansa opines. "I don't know if it'd be my sort of thing, and I won't know unless you let me read it. I've never read anything like that before."
Somewhere off to their left, the till chimes lightly. Margaery is buying copious amounts of iced coffee.
"I suppose you can have a look at it if you want," he tells her, a little stiffly, after a few seconds. He wonders whether this is a decision he'll come to regret.
-OoOoOoOoOoOoO-
Their first real stop is New Forest in Hampshire. They've only been back in the van for twenty minutes more since the service station when Margaery decides that this is it, and reverses haphazardly into a gravel car-park. The surrounding areas are green; all fields and woods, and the air is a little fresher, brisker, here.
"We'll have a walk around, explore a bit, and then find somewhere to stay the night." Margaery decides. They had passed a smattering of promising looking Bed and Breakfasts in the last few miles or so; thus far, their lack of planning hasn't hindered them any.
"Have you read Willas' book?" Sansa asks Margaery as they walk along a narrow dirt-path, bracketed by impressive oaks, a little later that afternoon. Willas is some way behind, walking with Garlan and Leonette; Garlan is telling the pair of them some story or other. Loras and Renly are up ahead; snatches of their laughter carry on the wind.
Margaery shakes her head. "It's not really my sort of thing," she replies; a vague, casual echo of what Willas had said earlier. "Why?"
Sansa runs her hands through her hair so that it falls about her face, curtaining it from Margaery's view. "I was just wondering."
"You've been awfully nice to Willas, today," Sansa imagines Margaery saying, brown eyes lit with a knowing twinkle. Her stomach dips. What is she supposed to say to something like that?
But her friend only says airily, "Who wants to read about musty old Frenchmen, anyway?"