Young & Beautiful

So then Louis squeezes harder, then Harry does, then Louis, and pretty soon their hands are
twisting in the air, shaking and flushed as their faces contort in grimaces and growls, leaving the
other three boys to stare at them, Niall mid-bite into a biscuit.
“Fuck’s sake,” he says with wide eyes. “Nice one, Malik. Really brilliant suggestion you had.”
And Liam doesn’t defend Zayn’s honor, instead sliding hesitant eyes to his smiling profile.
Without a word, Zayn merely continues to smile, as Harry and Louis continue to struggle before
them like a pair of clumsy rams.
**
Louis is not in a state of terrified discomfort. Nope.
Just because it’s already Thursday and he’s due to arrive at Harry’s rooms in less than fifteen
minutes for his first tutoring session, it does not mean that he’s in a state of terrified discomfort.
No sir-ee.
Nope.
(He’s also not in a state of unease because he woke up to seventeen missed calls from his mum
and a text that merely said, ‘I love you boo bear. Call me please. I miss you. Call me love.’ No,
he’s certainly not concerned for the well-being of his five sisters, since his mother seems to be
going through one of her phases again. But he will have to call her later, after he’s returned from
his tutoring session, and deal with the mess that he’s sure to find.)
“You better get going or you’ll be late,” Niall admonishes from the couch where he’s draped in
blankets and shoving Jaffa cakes into his mouth. There's a nameless and borderline-terrifying
cartoon on the TV.
“Yeah. Look for me if I don’t return? Tell my story?” Louis calls weakly, picking up his shoulder
bag.
“Will do!” Niall calls, unfazed and mouth full. “Text me if you need anything. See ya, mate!”
And Louis closes the door behind him.
Fuck.
He remains calm as he walks, admiring the warm, golden rays of the sun that have begun to
mingle with the nip in the air and the pale, stone walls of the university that peek through clusters
of muted green vines and ivy.
It’s really rather peaceful, actually.
He kicks at pebbles and smiles at passerby and hums Grease songs and stuffs his hands in his
pockets, then takes them out, then stuffs them back, all the while as he continues to walk. And he
absolutely does not feel anything except for a strange sense of serenity that engulfs his limbs.
And so, when he reaches Satan’s door, he knocks with a steady hand, feeling oceanic waves of
calm crash over him as he sniffs at the cool air and the soft perfume of flowers that it carries with
it.
The door opens, painfully slow.