Young & Beautiful

encased in glass and standing on the far end so it very much looked like a very real threat) and he
breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of the tall, troubled boy with the phone pressed to his ear.
He’s standing in the middle of a large hall on the ground floor, fist clenched at his side, head
bowed, muttering deep and mumbled words into the receiver.
Louis makes out only one sentence.
“He’s not here.”
And it’s said so hopelessly, so quietly, so very almost-tinged-with-fear, that Louis feels his chest
cave again, just as he had on that day he’d stumbled upon him in his room, tears and all.
And fuck.
Louis is not equipped to deal with this boy. Not when he flounders between severe annoyance,
distaste, confusion, and pity for him. And part of him wants to pull away, suck it up and turn on
his phone, call Niall or his mum or whomever, and just catch a ride home, forgetting about today
and Harry Styles and his carefully worded sentences and dripping blinks but, fuck, he can’t, he
just can’t, and so Louis steps back into the shadows and waits for Harry to hang up the phone, his
mind fighting the urge to race.
Because who’s not here? Who is Harry looking for?
Louis thinks he could know, might know, but doesn’t understand it; there are too many questions
and no fucking answers--the most infuriating thing in the world, to Louis--and so he doesn’t begin
to analyze or pick apart, he just waits.
Harry mutters a farewell after a few more murmurs, before dropping his hand to his side, phone
still tight in his grip. His head is still bowed, and as Louis leans further, he catches sight of his eyes
which are determined, almost manic, and fighting back a thousand emotions that seem to burst
beneath his skin.
It makes Louis’ palms itch.
“There you are!” he finds himself bursting aloud suddenly, unable to watch whatever it is that’s
happening any longer, bounding out from the shadows and towards Harry. He adopts his sassiest
tone, his most relaxed limbs, and raises an eyebrow in annoyance, steadily ignoring the pangs of
emotions that irritate him within.
Because, no. Louis is not emotional. And no, he does not care about the mess that is Harry Styles.
Harry turns around, his face immediately masked, eyes cool and assessing as they settle on Louis.
“I told you to wait,” he says, sliding his phone into his pocket.
“I know,” Louis says simply, and sends a sugary smile.
Harry studies him for a moment, eyebrows on the brink of annoyance, before he scoffs a bit and
averts his gaze. But it’s not nearly as cold as Louis has seen come from him before, and he feels
another pang.
“This is some place,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets as he takes in the room before
him. It would be the perfect setting for a ball. “Can’t imagine living in a house like this.”
Harry shrugs, remaining silent.