Young & Beautiful

exactly?) as he picks it up, examining its foggy surface and dripping stem.
“There you are,” he says, only a little bit of his frustration breaking to the surface as he brings the
glass to his eyes, determining his focus onto it, and steadily avoiding the wet mess that is Harry
Styles behind him.
He feels Harry’s eyes on him, and a quick glance backwards proves him right. The boy’s
eyebrows are knitted together as is custom (he’ll develop a unibrow soon, he will) and he doesn’t
say a word, his thick lips pressed together, his fingertips dripping as the remnants of the rain
cascade down his arms.
Somewhere in the back of Louis’ mind he registers that, were this a mere two days ago, this is
when he would have given up. He would have registered Harry’s silence, allowed the annoyance
to overtake him, and stalked off with a thrown back comment. And that would have been it.
But now…
Louis lowers the glass and keeps it in his warm grasp as he turns to stare at Harry, taking in the
boy's wet, disheveled appearance, his hallow, pale skin, offensive red mouth, and washed away
eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Louis asks firmly, eyes holding no amusement.
Harry continues to stare, void of emotion beneath his knitted brow.
“What were you doing out there?” Louis tries again, but his voice is heavy under the weight of
anxiety, and he can’t help it—he’s fucking tense and uncomfortable and he doesn’t know what
he’s doing, but he’s trying goddamnit.
Harry’s face flickers at that, apparently lost for words. Louis feels the budding of hope in his
chest, begins to see a bit of a life line, but then Harry’s composure has returned, and the emptiness
is back in place.
“We’re going to be late for tea,” is all Harry says, as if Louis hadn’t even spoken, and he makes to
leave.
But Louis catches his arm, turning him around, his heart thudding in his ears.
“Curly,” he says quietly, mouth twisting into an attempt at a smile as Harry’s eyes narrow at the
nickname. “Are you all right?” He places special emphasis on the sentence, staring into Harry’s
quiet, unlit gaze as fingers press into the cool, damp flesh of Harry’s arm.
Unblinkingly, Harry’s mouth opens after a brief pause.
Louis waits, his shoulders tensing, his discomfort at a maximum level.
And then Harry closes his mouth.
And then the creases of his face smooth into a plastic perfection.
And then he smiles with too many teeth.
“Tea time, Louis Tomlinson,” he says, and it’s hollow, leaving the air as quickly as it came.
Much like Harry himself, who is now striding ahead, long legs carrying him away.
And now Louis feels hollow as well. So he just stares as Harry vanishes around a corner.