Young & Beautiful

A very long time.
It was fun at first as they all joked beneath the bright sun, swinging their mallets (mostly at each
other) and being offered a slew of beverages from Zayn’s kind and obliging staff. Louis literally
almost shit his pants when he discovered there were actual maids and footmen who resided there.
They’ve become family friends essentially, Liam explained, but it was still alarming as fuck, and
Louis often took to sneaking his own drinks and snacks. Being served was entirely uncomfortable.
It’s bad enough when Rory offers to do him favors.
But the overall vibe was good, and, miraculously, Harry’s good mood stayed intact. He made
clever jokes and laughed at the appropriate times and bantered with Zayn about their times
together here—some jokes flying over all their heads, including Liam’s who stared between the
two with polite curiosity—and they relayed story after story of the shenanigans they pulled.
“We got away with too much,” Zayn had said while staring fondly at Harry, who shook his head.
“Never got away with enough,” he countered, and winked in Zayn’s direction before picking up
his mallet.
There was something there, a feeling laced within the words, but as Louis watched the pair and
their secretive eyes and glances broken by Harry—who was more interested in the game than
anything else—he found himself clueless, the intangible history of the group far beyond his grasp.
So they played on.
And now it’s been a good two hours, the clouds are pouring in, and everyone is incredibly bored.
Except Harry.
“I’m over this,” Niall says, sunglasses donned, one hand propping him up with the mallet, the
other on his hip. His face is vastly unamused.
“To be quite honest, I am as well,” Liam says, and everybody turns to Harry.
He’s got the mallet in his hands, feet splayed in a sturdy stance. He sways the mallet gently on
occasion, testing its weight, lips pressed between his teeth in concentration as he stares intently at
the ball. It’s all very intense. And very unnecessary.
“Just give it up, will you, Curly? It’s going to rain,” Louis says, glancing at the foreboding clouds
and occasional flickers of lightning.
“Says you,” Harry mumbles, still sizing up the ball.
“It’s not even fun anymore,” Niall complains, throwing his head back with misery, but Harry
makes no movement.
“You’re being spoiled. And immature. And a prat,” Louis accuses, glaring at Harry. “Majority
says not to play anymore, so you ignoring the majority makes you an arse.”
Harry glances up to him, cross. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” he says dryly before returning
his concentration. “I’ve almost won. Just let me finish.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Louis sighs, throwing up his hands. “What does it matter if you win?”
“I never win.”
“That’s true, though,” Liam says fairly.