Young & Beautiful

Harry showed Louis all of the main floor, dutifully giving the names of each room and relaying a
bit of history, and was being a very helpful tour guide. He was on the quiet side, surveying each
room emotionlessly or, occasionally, watching Louis which Louis caught him doing only a
handful of times, his eyes fixed and quiet as Louis touched every surface and commented on
everything he deemed fit. (“That’s bad manners. You shouldn’t say things like that.” “What?
You’re going to tell me it’s not stuffy in here and smells of mothballs?” “It doesn’t smell of
mothballs.” “But it is stuffy, innit?”And Harry didn’t respond, instead turning his head away and
doing something that looked suspiciously like suppressing a small smile.) It all went surprisingly
smoothly and calmly, their voices echoing and their glances just missing each other, weariness still
lingering on the ends of them, but Louis almost found himself enjoying the situation, almost even
enjoying Harry’s taciturn demeanor as it accompanied him through every room like a ghost.
Until they went upstairs. Where Harry suddenly disappeared.
And now, once again, Louis is alone and utterly confused, almost panicking, wondering where
the fuck Harry could have possibly gone. They literally only just climbed the stairs, and all Louis
did was bend over to pick up his phone which had slipped out of his pocket, and suddenly Harry
was gone when he’d stood back up, either having evaporated or had found a fucking port key. So
Louis begins walking aimlessly once more.
He searches, entering the nearest room and noticing a slightly ajar…door?...in the middle of the
wall (it blends perfectly with its surroundings, Louis would never have noticed it if it wasn’t
already open) and he shuffles towards it before hesitantly widening it. Surprisingly, it connects to
another room, a wee library, and he sees yet another door across the way.
He follows this pattern, stumbling through elaborate room after elaborate room, until he finds a
large, pale, barren room with long angora curtains billowing with the breeze from the open
window, and finds Harry sitting alone on a large sapphire velvet and satin couch. The shadows
almost swallow him and the breeze tickles his curls and the soft, blood red bow of his lips.
Louis stills, struck instantly with the image of a piano and the quiet desolation of Harry being
alone and looking so frail. Why is this such a reoccurring image? Inside AND outside of Louis?
His chest lurches again, with pity and discomfort.
But Harry’s not crying, not this time, instead staring quietly out the open window, hands lying in
his lap, feet crossed at the ankles, and he looks neat and folded and so, so small despite his endless
limbs and semi-scowl that seems ingrained in his features.
So Louis wordlessly walks ahead and sits beside him on the couch, at the opposite end, and
together they stare at the vibrant orange sun as it descends on the horizon.
“Are you all right?” Louis suddenly finds himself asking, but his words are quiet, barely cutting
the calm of the scene, and they glide along the breeze gently enough for Harry to get away with
pretending to not have heard.
But Harry’s head moves infinitesimally towards Louis before returning back, and his hands
immediately clutch together, strong and tight.
“I’m always all right,” he answers, but his voice is emotionless and brittle.
It catches Louis off guard, the struggle in his voice, and he turns to him, stares at the boy, and he
wants to poke, wants to pry and ask for more, but Harry’s eyes are lost. They’re lost and far away,
and Louis doesn’t know what to ask.