Young & Beautiful

father striking oil, and, with tunnel vision—thank you, vodka—Louis chases down Harry.
Because no. Fuck no. He may be drunk. This day may have been random and weird and
complicated. They may not have talked. But Louis is not going to just let Harry leave without
acknowledging him. Not after yesterday. Not after Louis smiled at him. And looked for him
because he was worried. And stared at his window the night he returned after he’d went missing.
Not after he put his drunken ass to bed all those weeks ago and brushed the frizz out of his eyes
and wiped the crust off of his mouth.
No.
So Louis drunkenly surges forward, grabbing Harry by the arm. And he hasn’t thought this out.
“You’re going to tutor me on Monday, then?” he asks drunkenly. And what? No—fuck, that is
not what Louis wanted to say at all.
But Harry blinks blearily, smiling through the fog. “’Course, Louis Tomlinson. I’ll make you
proper smart. Just you wait, laddy lad.” And he makes to go, but it’s not enough.
Louis catches his arm again.
“Are you all right?” he asks bluntly, taking a step closer, and by this point, Harry’s harem begins
to thin out, walking ahead with hyena laughter as they pile out the door and to the awaiting car.
Harry’s good humor falters. “Why the fuck are you always asking me that?” he growls, pulling his
arm away, but Louis steps even closer, staring as intently as he can into those eyes before him
despite the swells of intoxication that are swiftly engulfing every sense of reasoning he has.
“Yesterday,” is all Louis can manage, and Harry’s scowl fades the tiniest bit as he searches Louis’
face with something akin to confusion. Or is it bafflement? Whatever it is, it has Louis stepping
even closer, their toes now touching. “Did you find him?” he asks, quieter now, but just as slurred,
and he doesn’t know where the question came from or what it really means or if it’s too personal
for Harry to answer, but he doesn’t blink as he registers the changes of emotions in Harry’s face,
just continues to stare.
Louis expects him to just walk away as he always does, just turn around and stalk off after the
parade and into that car, but Harry doesn’t move, the corners of his eyes pinching and his mouth
twisting uncomfortably. A loose curl falls into his eyes.
“No,” he all but whispers, keeping Louis’ gaze, and even amidst the blaring music from the inhouse
speakers and Niall’s laughter, Louis can swear he hears the boy’s breath and nothing else.
He stares at the brittle shadow before him, the exhaustion, the helplessness and the fear etched in
his irises and creases, and Louis echoes the quietly pained ‘no’ in his mind over and over, and he
knows now that, yep, most definitely, Harry is not indeed all right.
“Harry—“ he begins, reaching out for his arm, but then a sea of other arms suddenly engulf the
boy, tanned skin clutching at his jumper and his unkempt curls, as they shout their laughter and
pull him in their direction.
“C’mon Harold!”
“We’ve not got all night!”
“Styles! Don’t be a bore now!”
And Harry’s eyes, thick and lost and murky, fix on Louis, even as he’s dragged backwards