Young & Beautiful

Louis immediately notes that it’s dark, very dark, the windows shrouded in curtains, sealed off
from the world, and not one light is on anywhere. The furniture is draped with soft, white sheets,
everything is still as stone, and it smells of wilted flowers and faded cologne. It seems empty
somehow despite its grandiose appeal, and though it took Louis’ breath away from the outside, the
inside feels intensely barren and hollow, and Louis doesn’t like the feel of it one bit.
He is also becoming increasingly certain that he is, indeed, being brought to a sacrificial alter.
Harry stalks ahead wordlessly, heels of his boots clicking through the shadowed, empty halls,
echoes bounding through the limitless ceilings and renaissance paintings that are hung at every
turn. The marble beneath Louis’ Toms is cold and shiny as he follows closely, not knowing what
else to do, and he can’t imagine why anyone would desire such a floor as it is absolute murder on
the feet. But, then again, he can’t imagine this place was designed for comfort in the first place.
They whip through room after room, Harry’s stride purposeful as he examines every inch of
space, opening closets and sliding his palms along the thick, embroidered curtains that cover every
window from the lingering sun, leaving only shrouds of darkness and slivers of struggling faded
light; every room is cold and shadowed in blues, and Louis wonders why they can’t flick on a
damn light or, god forbid, pull back the curtains.
But he doesn’t question it—not when he sees the tight clutch Harry has on his phone or the crease
between his brows as he glides forward, shoulders stiff beneath the crisp confines of his black
buttoned shirt, rolled up to his milky elbows, revealing bits of tattoo. He continues his search for
something nameless, apparently immune to the darkness, and Louis follows close behind because
he doesn’t know what else to do.
It’s odd. It’s weird. It’s strange as fuck. There’s tension and silence and Harry’s eyes are
somewhere distant, barely comprehending Louis is with him at all—and why the fuck is he? He
assumed Harry was taking him somewhere random, just as a distraction. He assumed this trip was
because of him, and not just to tag along as Harry runs errands or takes an aimless pit stop at home
or whatever the fuck they’re doing.
So Louis’ mind whirrs as he follows the click of the heels, thousands of questions and accusations
sitting on the tip of his tongue, barely restrained.
Then suddenly Harry stops, unlocks his phone, and throws a glance in Louis’ general direction.
“Wait here,” he says, and it’s so sudden, so unexpected, so loud in the still, silent space, that Louis
can only blink before Harry disappears down a flight of stairs.
And he could wait, sure.
But Louis was never one to be told what to do.
So, feeling completely at odds with everything happening in his life in this moment of time (and
he really wishes he could just turn on his phone and text his annoyance and distress to Niall) he
turns on his heel and strays from the staircase Harry had just descended, instead walking up the
staircase on the opposite end of the room and towards the only source of light he can see, pouring
from a little room at the end of the left hall. He doesn’t think, just seeks the source, and walks
carefully as if he were intruding, any noise made giving him away.
Each footstep connecting with the polished floor leads him closer to the streaming light, and while
he tries not to think about where he is, what he’s doing, and with who, and WHY (as if he could
think about anything else though, because what the actual fuck), his heart misses the memo,
hammering uneasily in his chest. His palms sweat, too, so he wipes them on his jeans absently as
he stares at the cold, painted faces of dead ancestors on the walls, the guilt molding, lavish