Young & Beautiful

Gritting his teeth against all the things he wants to say (because that won’t help right now, he just
needs to get Harry out of here) he sends one last filthy glare in their direction, allowing himself
only a, “Fucking parasites,” as he stumbles away.
This still doesn’t solve his problem of being stranded—might have complicated it even more—but
he doesn’t care, instead focusing on the sheer difficulty of supporting this lanky puppet that reeks
of sweat and flowers, head rolling on his shoulders as he barely manages to put one foot in front
of the other.
“I’m so glad you over-indulge, Curly. It’s really great. Just an overall splendid idea,” he grits,
meandering him over to the elevator.
The doors slide open with a slick ease, allowing them entry into the golden cubicle and Louis
pushes the button of the main floor with more force than is necessary.
“M’name’s Harold,” Harry suddenly mumbles in a low tone, lips barely opening. “Not ‘Curly.’”
And Louis almost wants to sing at that, because fuck, Harry is conscious and Harry has
connections. Notably, a car service.
“Curly! Harry. Harold. Excellent, you’re alive. All right then, tell me how I can get us home.
Because I actually don’t possess slaves.”
He can see the very faint furrowing of Harry’s brow (and Louis considers it an achievement that,
even in a state of near unconsciousness, he can still make Harry scowl) but Harry cooperates with
a, “’S in my phone. Under ‘Driver.’”
And isn’t that tidy.
“Of course it is,” Louis grumbles, but slides Harry’s phone out of his pocket all the same, finding
the name with ease and ringing him in a manner that he hopes doesn’t convey how fucking
emotionally taxed he is. All the while Harry mumbling nothings into his shoulder as he fades in
and out.
**
When “Driver” drops them off in front of the school, Louis is already on the verge of mental
collapse, having had to endure Harry’s body weight for far too long (and his grumbles and nearhisses
in his drunken confusion on the ride over) and briefly wonders how horrible it would be if
he just left him outside.
But, of course, his conscience takes over, and so Louis hoists Harry the rest of the way until they
successfully reach his rooms—which are unfairly far from Louis and Niall’s.
It’s awkward, having to support the almost-dead weight of Harry Styles as he meanders through
the dark of a flat he only just became acquainted with today. He stumbles, feet catching on spare
furniture and sharp corners, and at one point he almost drops Harry into a pile of cacti which are
congregated inconveniently close to the walkway. And while it would have been hilarious (and
why does Harry have cacti anyway?) Louis can’t think of anything worse than drawing this
process out longer than it needs to be, and so he sends a prayer of thanks to the heavens as he
kicks open Harry’s bedroom door, stumbles past the piano without one glance in its direction, and
flops Harry onto the bed.
And that’s all he’s going to do.
That’s what he’s told himself. That’s all he’s going to do.