Young & Beautiful

**
It’s not long after that that Edward and the other lads arrive. As well as Harry’s guests. Who hang
off of him like wet cloth while Louis glares at the spectacle over every sip of his wine.
They stay at the house for the remainder of the day and the pleasant afternoon turns to a bit of a
shit show as everybody absorbs alcohol and laughter, the house filling up with increasingly
unfamiliar faces, pricey perfumes mixing and blending in a way that leaves Louis a bit
lightheaded.
He gets drunker than he should, at one point slinging an arm around Zayn and demanding to meet
his mother in slurred tones because, damn it, she’s only been his favorite actress since he was nine
and too many tears have been shed. Zayn had nodded politely as he listened, amusing himself
more with restyling Louis’ hair than with the actual words coming from his mouth.
Louis also, as is the pattern in this new life of his, tries to avoid Harry. And by doing so, ends up
watching him obsessively.
Because maybe the boys can focus their attentions on spray painting dirty drawings on the
pavement outside and drown themselves in body shots and coke, but Louis still feels anxious and
guilty and uneasy. Because his day went from him believing that him and Harry just might have a
shot at being friends and that Harry was all right, to discovering that Harry was anything but all
right and no more opened up to Louis than he was when they first met.
And that’s just disconcerting, really. Especially when the boy himself has three different people
licking and sucking the salt off of his collarbones while he stares at the ceiling with vapid patience,
his hands limp where they lie on either side of the back of the couch.
Harry, with girls and boys alike crawling over his lap, yanking his face to theirs.
And Louis, clutching a teacup filled with gin, shifting passerby out of his way roughly in order to
keep his line of sight unobstructed.
And fuck, that’s weird, but it’s nearing night now and at least he’s not snorting lines of speed off
of the kitchen floor like Niall and Liam—who are also covered in spray paint, having decided that
was a good idea.
And it’s not even seven P.M.
Louis inwardly groans at the state of his life before ripping his eyes away from Harry and the
whores and trudging to the farthest corner of the house, knicking a cigarette from Zayn on the
way.
**
By nine o’clock, the boys decide to move the party to the club, and Zayn is just beginning to call
forth his chauffeurs on his iPhone, when Harry announces he has other plans.
“It’s been a pleasure, darlings,” he announces blearily, each syllable interrupted by a breathy
giggle as he stumbles around his gaggle of adoring fans. “The car’s just pulled up. Text me if
you’ve found gold.” With a lopsided grin that looks worlds away from his foggy eyes, he begins
stumbling forward, pressing a kiss to Niall’s shoulder as he passes.
And Louis watches from his perch on the sofa armrest, mid convo with a pair of Swedish twins.
“If you’ll just excuse me a moment,” he says hurriedly as the one on the left blathers on about their