Young & Beautiful

“You’ve had everybody,” Niall muses, before Harry smirks, and then Niall clomps over, throwing
an arm around Louis’ shoulders. “So then, Tommo. What happened?”
“What do you mean ‘what happened?’ I fucking failed, didn’t I? Nothing else to say,” Louis finds
himself snapping. And he feels bad, he does, but he can’t be bothered about it now because it’s a
shit day and if Harry can be such a prat 24/7, surely he can have a slip-up once in a blue moon.
And Niall doesn’t seem to mind anyways, instead clapping a soothing hand on Louis’ back and
shrugging his shoulders with an, “Ah, well. Better luck next time.”
“You’ve been having trouble in that class,” Zayn comments mildly, peering up at Louis who nods
in response, eyes studying his hands as he tries not to glare or pout.
“You should get some help with it,” Liam suggests earnestly. “George is an excellent tutor. So is
Edward. And that bloke who’s on the Student Union with us—Arthur—his grandfather used to
teach the course.” He looks to Zayn who nods slowly, eyes trained on Louis.
“I’ve never needed a tutor,” Harry then comments uselessly, sliding his fingers through the
bouquets of flowers on the table, eyes lost in the petals.
And everybody except Liam rolls their eyes, though Harry is oblivious to any of it.
“Hey. You’re good at Victorian literature,” Zayn points out suddenly with a growing smile, eyes
calm.
Harry sighs, a half-hearted smile at play as he looks up and meets Zayn’s gaze. “Yes. I am,” he
says simply, then returns his gaze to the roses.
“You should tutor Louis.”
And for a moment, the room is completely silent, all eyes sliding to Louis’ face. Which is now
posed in absolute and total horror.
Harry’s own face immediately contorts to an affronted glare as his head snaps up once more.
“No,” he counters immediately, gripping a hand over his stomach defensively as if burned, fingers
digging into the rich fabric of his jacket.
“But you love the subject,” Zayn breathes through smoke. Liam’s eyes curiously turn to him,
quietly calculating.
“Well, I have a say in this as well, and I also say no,” Louis adds, pouring himself a very generous
glass of champagne and feeling his cheeks flush. Because what the fuck is wrong with Zayn? And
when did it get so hot in here?
“Why not?” Liam asks, his naivete giving him the air of a small, golden retriever pup, staring
betwixt the two boys with wide brown eyes that search for answers, before settling back on Zayn.
“I’d rather peel my own skin off,” Louis spits at the exact same time that Harry replies with a,
“Some cannot be taught.”
Registering the other’s answer at the exact same time, they whir around to face each other, faces
set in matching glares.
“I beg your pardon?” Harry demands, grip on his glass tightening.
“Say that again, Curly,” Louis dares, ignoring him, and setting down his own drink.