Young & Beautiful

quill in the murky ink, careful to dab the tip against the glass for excess drips. He then begins
making work of the parchment before him, the quill scratching efficiently as Harry watches his
own scrawl with lazy, pale green eyes, bottom lip bitten between his teeth, the dust-swirling
sunbeams that shine through the room soaking him in gold and shadow.
And Louis can’t help but glare because he hates how poetic this fucker looks right now, with his
Greek-mythology styled curls and clusters of eyelashes that would have spiraled Keats into
depression and worn Byron’s fingers to the bone. Especially when Louis keeps pin-balling
between being convinced that he’s a demon and a broken angel.
But a broken demon is probably more accurate.
“I’ll just sit here, then. No need to talk,” he mumbles, flashing his eyebrows upward and ripping
his eyes away from the scene before him. “I mean, why would you want to ask me if I understood
everything from last night’s assignment? That would just be strange.”
Harry’s jaw sets. “I’ll ask you on Monday, though I already know the answer.” His murky stare
flashes up to Louis’. “It’s not like you’ll be touching this during the weekend, anyway.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Louis snaps.
“That you’re not going to touch this during the weekend anyway,” he repeats slowly, and now
he’s stopped writing and is full on glaring at Louis, quill poised in one hand, the other clenched in
a fist atop the desk.
Louis shakes his head, scoffing. “You know, you really are the most incredible piece of—“
But Louis is swiftly cut off by the sharp vibration of the phone in his pocket.
Shooting one more glare in Harry’s direction (who has already begun writing again) he slides it
out, already prepared to answer Niall and exaggeratedly complain about Harry, but then he sees
the caller ID.
And it’s not Niall.
Mum.
“Fuck,” he hisses, feeling his heart drop immediately. Because he hadn’t texted her back
yesterday, had he? Or called. How could he have fucking forgot?
Because he’s been corrupted by this fucking school, that’s how.
He continues to stare at the screen, psyching himself to answer as it continues to vibrate
expectantly, and he feels Harry’s quiet gaze flicker up to him as he bounces his leg nervously.
Shutting his eyes firmly tight, he swipes the phone and brings it to his ear before he can change his
mind.
“Hey!” he greets in his happiest tone, and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Lou? Louis?” he hears his mother answer, almost frantically. God.
“Yes?”
“Where have you been? Why’ve you been ignoring me? You up to trouble?”
“What? No, I—“