Young & Beautiful

Because oh yeah, they’re immortal and untouchable and everything is life.
So Louis laughs and twirls around, hands outstretched to the heavens as glitter falls and catches on
his sweaty skin, coating him in stars.
**
Louis can’t find the fucking bathroom. And if he doesn’t find it soon, he’s just going to wee in the
rose bushes.
He’s been opening every door he can find, only stumbling upon closets, pantries, and studies.
And, now, a very intimate scene.
“My bad,” Louis apologizes, instantly shielding his eyes before shutting the door with a snap.
He spins around, ready to all but run away, when he’s met with a broad chest and a Native
American necklace.
Fuck.
“Careful,” Harry warns, taking a step back from Louis and glaring, his curls sticking to his
forehead. He smells fucking amazing, but it only serves to anger Louis more.
“Oh get over yourself,” Louis scoffs, and is just about to walk past him when Harry catches his
arm. He looks up, eyes narrowed. “Can I help you?”
“Stop acting like you’re better than me,” Harry growls, but his voice wavers the tiniest bit, pupils
wide and inebriated under a furrowed brow, his fingers digging into Louis’ warm flesh.
Louis shakes his head, eyes slitted. “Then stop being you.”
Harry retracts his hand like he’s been burnt, scowling at Louis with that intensity that he only
displays when he’s agitated; Louis wonders if all of Harry’s emotions would be that passionate if
he wasn’t barren of emotions and life. Perhaps that’s why he’s only a shell—he’s too much for
himself.
“You don’t know me,” Harry deadpans, straightening his back and smoothing out his features.
“I think I do, Harry Styles,” Louis says, and allows his glare to fade, replacing it with pitying
disapproval. “You drown yourself in pretty words and champagne and fuck knows what kind of
drugs. You shag everything that walks. You only listen and care about yourself, and you feel
nothing for the world. You watch people love you and you love nothing in return,” Louis says
lowly, disgusted, the alcohol and fury gripping his bones and spurring his tongue.
Harry stares back beneath the flickering lights, shadows deep beneath his eyes, expression
unreadable. “Love?” he asks with wry distaste.
Louis merely stares in response, chest squared, adrenaline ebbing.
Harry’s mouth twists into a sickly grin, eyes colder than he’s ever seen them—which is saying
something.
“Haven’t you heard, Louis Tomlinson? Each man kills the thing he loves.” His grin fades. “The
coward with a kiss.” He takes a step closer to Louis, his alcohol soaked breath and expensive
cologne suffocating the air. “The brave man with a sword.” He finishes in an almost-whisper, the
corner of his lips quirked into a sneer.