Young & Beautiful

So he returns to staring at the sun, hyper aware of Harry’s presence, despite Harry being almost
completely unaware of his own.
Minutes upon minutes go by, and the sun is almost gone, sending its last, most glorious rays to the
world, and Louis glances toward Harry, noting the phone that lies quietly on the table beside him,
screen staring expectantly, as if Harry’s waiting for a call. Maybe even begging for one. But it
doesn’t come, and Harry stares unseeingly and Louis fixes his hair, feeling uncomfortable and
unsettled and off.
“I notice you’re a fan of creepy bird cages,” he then says, and Louis really wishes he could rip his
own vocal chords out because why can’t he just stop talking? Why??
Harry doesn’t blink. “They’re not mine. I hate them.”
And Louis is surprised because such random, antique rubbish seems right up Harry’s alley.
“What? Why?”
“I like things to be free.”
Louis looks over to him again, fully now, and stares openly at the boy before him with his
sculpted jaw and smooth skin and noble nose.
And in that moment, Harry looked anything but free.
And Louis can’t explain why. Or how.
And he doesn’t know what to do—fuck, what can he do?—so he looks away, clutching the
armrest tightly and bouncing his leg, wishing there was music or chatter or screaming or
something to fill the pounding silence of the room and to fill every corner of Louis’ brain, because
he doesn’t want to think about the boy next to him and he doesn’t want to feel the gnawing desire
of needing to know what’s so very wrong, and he doesn’t want to question why Harry had said
‘he’s not here’ on the phone or why he goes missing for days at a time or why he falls into bed
with everything with a heartbeat or why he glares at Louis but cries when he’s alone or why he
looks so soft in the quiet spaces of the day, when no eyes are upon him.
So they continue to sit until Harry stands up, signals for Louis to do the same, and they leave in
silence.
It’s as they’re leaving the house, the heavy doors shutting behind them, that Louis remembers why
they’re here.
“Surely we’re not going back already,” he says, stopping dead in his tracks as Harry makes his
way to the car.
Harry pauses, looking at Louis over his shoulder, furrowing. “Your mum wouldn’t really be there
still, would she?” he asks, and Louis is taken aback. Because Harry actually remembers, despite
the obvious piles of shit weighing on his mind? And Harry knows the dread in Louis’ statement
was directed toward his mum, and that alone? He bears concern for the situation at hand? Human
concern? For another?
Louis shrugs, swallowing his thoughts. “She probably would be, if I’m being honest, mate.”
Harry looks to the ground. When he looks back up at Louis, his face is stoic.
“Let’s look at the gardens. I have a new flower.”