Young & Beautiful

sound, he feels an undeniable urge for more.
So, mind addled by champagne and a few sips of gin, he silently turns the doorknob and eases the
door open.
He’s immediately greeted with the sight of Harry sat at a large chestnut piano, head lightly bent.
His hands—which are out of Louis’ line of sight, buried beneath the strong lines of the frame—
seem to move deftly and gracefully, his quiet eyes following their movement. The satin of his robe
catches in the soft rays of light streaming from the line of windows behind him, contrasting against
the powder blue shadows of the room (the lights are off) and mingling his skin in multi-tones and
angles.
Louis stares.
It’s not like when Niall plays.
Niall’s whole life is like a bursting light shining endlessly on all that surrounds it, but when he’s
immersed in his instruments and music, his whole being calms. Instead of the raucous energy and
life that pours from him, the shining beacon of life that is Niall Horan dims as he plays piano, his
energy focused and quiet.
It’s the opposite with Harry.
Harry, who is all cardboard smiles and vacant eyes, the very personification of 'the light’s on but
nobody’s home' in the most gruesome sense, positively alights when he plays. Not that he’s
smiling or anything. No, Harry doesn’t look any less miserable than usual. But there’s something
indefinably different about him. There’s a trueness, a genuineness, a passionate intent within him
that glows to the surface, leaving him wrecked and real, his shoulders slumped under the weight
of the shadows.
It’s like all of those flickers of something that Louis sees in Harry’s eyes whenever he’s agitated—
here they are, spelled out and assembled in the flesh.
For the first time, Harry Styles looks consistently like a person. He looks like a boy. And Louis
can’t look away.
But then the keys start to jumble.
Louis almost doesn’t notice at first, the unnerving beauty of the moment dulling his senses, but
then the unmistakable odd “clank” of a key mars the simple melody, and Louis’ eyes flash up to
meet with Harry’s face and—
Oh fuck.
His cheeks are wet.
There are streams, thick, hot streams of tears pouring down his face, blurring his vision, pressing
his long eyelashes to his cheeks in clumps, and though Harry has absolutely no idea that Louis is
there as he silently plays and weeps, Louis feels ashamed watching the spectacle.
Because Harry Styles is crying (he’s human? what?) and it’s something that Louis has dreamt
about in his darkest hour. But now that it’s actually happening...it’s not satisfying at all. It’s
fucking heartbreaking. And the tiny sniffles and the glistening cheeks caught between shadow and
light fill Louis with an indescribable sorrow that he can’t even begin to place.
He’s about to turn away, he is, but then Harry stops playing altogether, and he grips the frame of