Young & Beautiful

Where would he go? No point in walking all the way back to his rooms.
Harry just shrugs, glare still present, emanating disinterest and disapproval in hefty sums. “Doesn’t
matter to me. You’ll have to entertain yourself either way.”
Oh, how lovely.
“Then if it’s all the same to you, I’ll just stay,” Louis clips with an exaggerated narrowing of the
eyes, taking an aggressive step forward.
Harry opens the door and allows Louis in without another word, turning on his heel and stalking
away, vanishing into an adjoining room and closing the door with a firm click. And then the
sound of a lock is heard, and that’s really just overkill.
“I’ll just make myself at home then, shall I?” Louis calls with a roll of the eyes, but he’s met with
total silence.
Well. This is going to be awkward.
Luckily, Harry’s rooms are gorgeous and full of enough rubbish to keep him plenty occupied. The
space is large, almost larger than Zayn’s, blood red walls and mahogany painting the atmosphere
and, surprisingly, there’s no piano. Because yes—even Liam has one, plays it while Zayn stands
next to him and sings like a bloody angel in Paradise.
Harry’s style is far more eccentric than Zayn’s sleek luxury; where Zayn has smooth black stereo
systems and large wooden bookcases, Harry has thick velvet curtains, gramophones, record
players, framed porn stills from what appears to be the ‘20’s or ‘30’s, and…cat figurines.
A lot of fucking cat figurines.
He pokes at the creepier ones, their sightless blue eyes staring under the elaborate chandeliers and
afternoon light, ceramic fur pointed in all directions. He has to admit some of them are rather
endearing—the pair of glass kittens with their paws mutually wrapped around a little ball of yarn
are really rather heartwarming—but for the most part they’re unnerving and the fact that there isn’t
a speck of dust on them indicates they’re well cared for.
Which Louis doesn’t know how to feel about.
He continues slowly sweeping through the room, examining the shelves stuffed with worn books
(like Zayn, Harry seems to collect only first and vintage editions) and swipes his fingers over their
tired leather spines, titles barely visible under the stress of time. He notes the rather generous
collection of Oscar Wilde books, and briefly wonders if Harry has enough substance in him to
truly appreciate such works, or if he keeps it all as a pretense, a distraction, or a conversation
starter.
Probably all three.
It’s just as he’s about to take a seat in the vermilion chaise longue (that’s sat next to a tiny, ornate
wooden table cluttered with half-drunk bottles of liquor, various stemware milling about) that he
hears the sudden click of a lock and the opening of a door.
He turns in time to see a beautiful blonde dressed in a rumpled gold dress, dangling her sleek
pumps in one hand, combing her hair with the other. Harry follows immediately behind her, a
satin magenta robe draped over his hideous heart shirt and black trousers, feet bare.
“Bye, Harold,” the girl purrs, and presses a kiss to his cheek which he doesn’t even come close to