Young & Beautiful

He trots to the nearest porch--which luckily has a door, albeit a camouflaged one--with his
chuckles still reverberating through his chest. He slides through the opened door, slouching
through the room and entering the house, leaving puddles in his wake as he feels his heart still
pounding in his chest, his bloodstream alight with adrenaline and laughter. He can hear the
laughter of the other boys ahead and he follows the sound, squishing past large windows.
Then suddenly something catches his eye.
He stops, turning toward the large window nearest to him, and stares, squinting through the
torrential chaos of water and lightening. Amongst the ribbons of rain he sees a grayish blur.
Harry.
He’s standing in the middle of the yard, arms outstretched, champagne glass in hand, head bent
back to face the heavens as rain pelts him relentlessly. His body is splayed, almost begging to be
struck by the licks of lightning, but his face is calm, emotionless, unmoving.
Louis stares, catching his breath, his adrenaline ebbing out of his body as he takes in the scene
before him, the laughter of the other boys now distant in his ear.
Because, fuck. Wasn’t Harry supposed to be better? Wasn’t he in a good mood today?
But damn. Louis realizes, with a sick twinge of his stomach, the question is more like: Wasn’t
Harry a good little actor today?
Fuck.
It shouldn’t mean anything, Harry standing in the storm, shouldn’t imply anything at all other than
he likes a good downpour. But Louis knows. He just knows.
He knows that this is yet another one of those moments, those things, that instantly alerts Louis to
the shambles that Harry is made up of. He knows this is another sign, another thing wrong, and
that of fucking COURSE Harry wasn’t just suddenly better after yesterday. He'd just been putting
up a front for the boys, a false bravado.
And now here he is, thinking he’s alone, quiet and splayed and mentally bruised, letting his body
wash away.
Louis feels a thousand internal pangs as Harry continues to stand and he wants nothing more than
to move, to retrieve the idiot and drag him inside where it’s warm and safe, but all he can do is
stare as he listens to his own breath return to normal.
He swears that he can almost hear the gentle pings of the raindrops hitting the champagne glass
clutched in Harry’s left hand.
**
Harry still hasn’t come inside.
And not a word has been said about it.
They’re gathered in the living room and kitchen, swaddled in bathrobes while their clothes dry
(and Louis is really trying to ignore the fact that each bathrobe is monogrammed with “Z.M.”
because, really), stuffing their faces with incredible food and wine, but Harry still isn’t there and
not once has anybody questioned it.