Young & Beautiful

Liam had introduced Louis and Niall to the remaining staff as soon as they’d gathered after their
rain race--which, by the way, nobody won, due to Liam claiming it was Zayn and Zayn claiming
it was Liam--and they had all milled about and shared a laugh. Louis found himself to be
particularly fond of Stephen—Zayn’s personal chef—who is currently laughing joyously at Niall’s
reactions as he samples each and every dish he procures, taking the time to explain the ingredients
in detail, much to Zayn’s amusement who watches from the table where he’s playing a solitary
game of cards, cigarette dangling between his lips.
Louis watches the group with a smile, throwing out an exuberant comment every once in awhile
where he sees fit, and while the boys chortle around him—especially Liam who always seems to
look anticipatorily toward Louis when something funny occurs or is said—Louis’ mind veers in
almost every other direction. And as he helps himself to another cup of punch, politely declining
Darla’s offer to assist, he begins to feel a strange sort of inner panic as he dumps peach tinted
liquid into his sparkling glass teacup.
His smile remains fixed, and occasionally he’ll meet the eyes of Zayn or Liam, or roll his eyes in
Niall’s general direction…but the rain pelts against the windows steadily, a bit calmer now, and
more often than not he finds himself glancing out into the empty expanses of yard.
He can’t see Harry, doesn’t even come close to it, but with each tinkle of rain against cool glass,
with each careless laugh shared between the boys, Louis’ chest tugs with anxiety. Because they’re
all sitting here, having the time of their lives, while one of their party is missing, actually blatantly
missing, and nobody bats an eye. Not even Zayn, who seems a bit more attuned to Harry than the
others.
With a tight grip, Louis brings the punch to his mouth, swallowing the tart liquid in gulps, his eyes
glued to the windows.
Does nobody honestly care? Does nobody realize? What the fuck?
Then again.
Is he any better? He, who just turned and walked away from the spectacle of Harry crucified
under a crying sky, numb and emotionless as he embraced emptiness? He saw Harry, saw him
and left without a word. And, sure, everybody here is just mindlessly enjoying themselves, and
yeah, Liam’s now texting Edward and the lads to come out and join them, and they’re all
innocently oblivious, but fuck—don’t they fucking realize that one of their best mates is out there
drowning?
Because that’s what it is. Harry is drowning. Probably has been for years. And they don’t even
fucking see it, but Louis—who has known him for a total of sixty days, give or take—saw it
automatically, and fuck.
Just fuck.
Then again. He could just be looking too deeply into it all. Because, yeah, he doesn’t know Harry
like these guys. He hasn’t lived with his mood swings and his obsessions and his insincerity and
emptiness and unpredictability. Maybe they know him well enough to know that this is just what
Harry does.
Because when does it get to be too much? Where is the line that separates healthy concern from
invasive fuckery? And how does he even know if something’s off with Harry? Just because of his
eyes? A few choppy expressions? A broken word or two? Standing in the rain? What does that
even mean?