Young & Beautiful

Harry’s door. It’s in a wonderful location, the rooms right above the archways near the gardens,
looking out over the lake and tucked far enough away from the hubbub that it’s almost peaceful
from the outside.
As Louis waits, he can only hope that he’s not the first one here. They’re supposed to go to dinner
soon—some posh place that Niall insists has the best steak and whiskey in the country. Originally
they were going to just meet there (which would only be logical, to be honest) but Harry’s new
thing is berry cordial, and so he insisted on hosting cocktail hour before they departed.
And so here Louis is. Waiting outside of Harry Styles’ door. Dressed in an ebony knit sweater and
timberwolf skinny jeans, arms crossed, and resolutely not nervous. At all.
After about 5 minutes and no answer, he considers leaving. Because does he even have the right
door?
But just as he’s turning on his heel with all the flair of rejection, about to angrily text Niall, the
door opens, slowly and steadily.
And it’s Harry. Scowling. Not dressed in his usual suit and bow tie which Louis has only ever
seen him in…but wearing a heart shirt. An actual heart shirt. It’s buttoned to the collar, deep
purple, and is splattered with large white fucking hearts.
“What in God’s name are you wearing?” Louis utters instantly, unable to stop himself, as he stares
in almost-horror at the display before him.
Harry’s scowl deepens as he looks down at himself. “What?”
“Are those curtains? Surely that is not a shirt.”
A steely glare is thrust back into Louis’ face. “What are you doing here?”
Louis blinks. “We’re supposed to meet here. Remember? Cocktail hour?” He says it witheringly
and, maybe, rolls his eyes a little over-exaggeratedly.
“I said to come at four.”
“It’s four-thirty.”
“Exactly. You’re supposed to arrive an hour after the proposed time. Don’t you know anything at
all?” It’s said in such an equally withering tone that Louis almost starts, the urge to slip off his
shoe and beat it mercilessly over Harry’s head alarming.
Instead, he narrows his eyes. Is this one of your trite rules? Or are you seriously telling me that
I’ve arrived half an hour early?”
“You’ve arrived half an hour early.”
Fuck.
So.
“Well…” Louis scratches the back of his neck, refusing to look at Harry and instead skimming his
eyes over the wooden grit of the door, focusing intently on the ornate onyx hinges that are really
rather finely crafted. “Should I just wait, or…?” Louis asks awkwardly, wanting nothing more
than to escape the situation (and maybe sneak a shoe-bludgeon on the way out) but not really
seeing the practicality of departure.