Young & Beautiful

There he is, Harry, and Louis does a double take as he processes the scene before him; because
Harry is wearing a gray, knit JUMPER and JEANS and fuck—Louis didn’t know he possessed
anything besides suits, bow ties, tacky patterns, and velvet.
He stares in surprise.
“It’s rude to stare,” Harry points out, eyes unimpressed as he watches Louis, arms crossed.
“You’re wearing normal clothes,” is all Louis can manage in surprise, and Harry merely glowers
as he steps back and allows Louis inside, no word said in response.
He walks into the large room and, much to his surprise, it’s rather different from when he was last
there—which immediately sparks the image of a sleeping, unkempt Harry and a quietly doting
Louis, and he winces away his thoughts as he focuses his attention on the bushels of white lilies
covering every flat surface and the large paintings that adorn every inch of space on the walls.
Paintings that look oddly familiar.
“Zayn’s?” he questions, motioning towards a large canvas of fiery stars hanging above the
mahogany and marble fireplace.
Harry, glower still firmly intact, merely nods, standing at a distance with his hands folded behind
his back. He almost looks soft, with his loose jumper and rumpled jeans and powdery, askew
curls, but the diamonds from his Chanel watch cut through the air, almost as much as his cold,
empty stare, and Louis is reminded that Harry Styles is anything but ‘soft.’
“You’ve remodeled,” Louis comments, eyes flicking to the candles that cluster the floors, shelves,
and tables, woven between the large and worshiped collection of cat statues, and arranged neatly
on the tables amidst champagne bottles. Antique guitars and lutes are scattered about, and crinkled
sheet music litters the floors amongst soft yellow rose petals and drips of what Louis assumes is
Dom Perignon.
“I change my rooms every week,” is the low, mumbled response.
He glances over to him. “You mean, you hire someone else to change your rooms every week for
you.” Louis smiles brightly.
Harry scowls.
There’s silence.
“Let’s just get this over with, shall we?” Harry murmurs in a growl, and slumps towards the large,
antique wooden desk in the corner, flopping himself down in the plush velvet chair before it. “I’m
just going to draw up an outline for you,” he mumbles in a poisonously slow tone, eyes lidded and
following his careful movements of…assembling a quill and ink?
And oh fuck. Is that parchment?
“Christ sake,” Louis laments, standing before the desk, throwing his arms out in exasperation.
“Can’t you just use a bloody laptop, man? We’re going to be here all fucking day if you do that.
We’re studying the Victorian era, not fucking living it.”
A tiny quirk pricks at the corner of Harry’s lips, but other than that, no reaction is made as he
slowly dips his quill in the ink and smooths out the parchment before him. Wordlessly, he begins
writing.
Louis sighs loudly, and very dramatically, but Harry pays no mind, instead delivering an elaborate