Young & Beautiful

The rain pelts harder and Niall’s laugh is even louder.
And, what’s more, if Harry is indeed ‘damaged’ or whatnot, how is Louis to know if he’s even
able to be ‘saved’? What if it’s too late? What if what’s been broken just can’t be fixed, and in
concerning himself for this hot mess of a boy, Louis just embarks on a dead-end journey of useless
stress and concern?
Or what if nothing’s wrong and he’s just a little spoiled fucker? Buried in hedonism and excess
and demands and distractions to fill the boredom?
Liam’s glancing at his pocket watch, announcing the time, and Zayn suggests they spray paint the
walls. Niall’s stuffing spinach croissants in his mouth, the flakes sticking to his chin and
embedding in the band of his Rolex, and the rain pelts endlessly, and Harry’s missing, and Louis
takes another sip of punch as the tightness in his chest only grows, feeling a little bit really fucking
helpless.
Because what exactly is he supposed to be doing right now? Searching the grounds for an
emotional Harry? Dragging him across the lawn, demanding he come inside? He can’t do any of
those things. He can only do nothing.
But, fuck, no he can’t.
He can’t just watch someone drowning. Not when he’s standing in front of them. Not when
Niall’s too busy laughing and Liam’s too busy texting and Zayn’s too busy stroking his fingers
along the back of Liam’s neck.
Nobody’s reacting, nobody cares, nobody sees it or hears the tidal rushes of water or the rain or
the absence of Harry and his fucking umbrella-dog-handle thing he named Berkley, but Louis
does, Louis fucking sees and hears and feels and fuck—
“I’m going to the loo,” he suddenly announces to the room, too loudly and too disjointed, as he
bolts upward out of his chair.
The room momentarily softens in volume for a second as the lads glance up at him, Stephen
entering the room to place tiny quiches on a silver tray, accompanied by a few sweet-faced
women in tight buns who gather the mess.
“It’s just over there,” Zayn points, eyes studying Louis who nods in acknowledgement, before
turning away. He feels Zayn’s eyes on his back as he marches in the direction of his finger, before
turning a sharp corner just as he’s out of sight.
Mind flicking and sparking, Louis retraces his steps from before, until he’s met with the porch
he’d entered the house in after the rain.
He’s going to search for Harry. He’s going to scour the lawns, drag his dramatic, broken bum into
the house, and he’s going to keep an eye on him. A close eye. Because Harry is a better actor than
he thought, and he can’t watch someone drown.
It’s at that moment that he notices the movement, as he takes a step inside the porch.
On the far end, near the doors connecting to the outside, there stands Harry, pushing back his
sopping hair off of his face, wearing only a thin white t-shirt that clings damply to his smooth,
pallid torso, his tattoos visible beneath, and a soaking pair of trousers. The rest of his clothes are
bunched on the ground or lain on the furniture to dry. The champagne glass sits on a table nearby,
filled with more rainwater than actual champagne. Louis walks to it immediately, feeling the
awkwardness of the situation charge his limbs (because, uh, what was he planning on doing