Young & Beautiful

“Some cannot be taught,” Harry repeats, and it’s said with such childish spite that Louis is almost
tempted to laugh, and Niall actually does.
“Well, that’s funny, that, because some cannot teach.”
Harry stares. “What are you trying to say?” he demands, voice deep and even, ruby lips slow to
form each word.
Louis smiles angelically, batting his eyelashes with exaggerated innocence. “That you can’t
teach.”
Harry looks as if he’s been slapped, actually recoiling from Louis as if he’s been beaten with a
hotwire, and Louis feels the power of his position, regaining confidence as he fixes his steady
stare downward to inspect his nails with faux-casualty, enjoying the control of the situation at
hand.
Liam watches with wide, almost fearful eyes, and Zayn sips at burgundy wine, eyes nothing but
amused and patient. And Niall scratches his stomach, stifling a yawn.
“You know, I’ve said so myself that there’s nothing a knob like you could teach me,” Louis lies.
Because, no, he hasn’t exactly said that, but he’s probably thought it. “I could learn more from a
broomstick. At least it does actual work.”
And there it is—Harry’s eyes are engulfed with all the rage of a man who will absolutely find a
broomstick of his own and beat Louis over the head with it. Until he’s dead.
“Broomsticks do not do actual work,” he mumbles, eyes ablaze. “They are used for work—it’s
other people who perform the duties. They’re just the tool.” Harry pauses, blinking a slow, angry
blink, his glare deepening infinitesimally. “So there.”
Louis stares at him. “That’s what you got out of that? Really?”
Harry continues to glare.
So Louis smiles poisonously sugary and places a hand chock-full of attitude on his hip, tilting his
head as he flouts, “Well, then I suppose we’re on the same page in thinking you can’t teach worth
a shit!”
“OUR FIRST SESSION WILL BE TOMORROW,” Harry immediately clips in a rasping, angry
thunder, and his chest puffs with the indignation that Louis is absolutely delighted to hear soaking
his words. “You will be the best student in the fucking school by the time I’m done with you.” He
pauses, scowling. “If that’s possible.”
“On your end or mine?” Louis counters, and Harry is actually baring his teeth at this point.
“Tomorrow,” he repeats, lowly.
And Louis really, really wants to refuse the offer, throw it back in Harry’s face (along with his
drink) but it’s tempting, and the quiet nagging in his stomach keeps him silent, only leaving him
space to nod his assent.
“Tomorrow it is, then,” Louis agrees, and takes the hand Harry has extended, shaking it with
forceful finality and squeezing with just enough force to infer who’s boss.
Which doesn’t work when Harry squeezes back, harder.