Young & Beautiful

Really odd.
Harry’s face falls almost imperceptibly, and if Louis hadn’t become a connoisseur of Harry Styles
facial expressions, he might not have picked up on it immediately. Because Harry’s face falls, and
he stares at Louis. His shoulders slump in submission, and Louis watches him avert his eyes to the
floor, downcast and small. Then, slowly—and dejectedly, much to Louis’ unease—Harry stands
up, silently walking to his desk, head bent and eyes…wounded.
And fuck.
Fuck.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Louis watches him, feeling very much alarmed and out of sorts, and it’s like an actual kicked
puppy is before him as Harry wordlessly sits and takes out a pen—not his quill—and paper,
scribbling down an outline at incredible speed, his eyes never leaving the paper, the shadows
seeming deeper, and he watches the bob of his Adam’s apple as the boy swallows thickly.
Just like that, the atmosphere of the room has turned to thick, painful sludge.
And Louis can’t tell if his new technique is working in some twisted way, this technique of a firm
hand, or if it’s backfiring or what, but Harry’s at least listening now, and Louis takes that as a
somewhatly positive sign?
So, swallowing the bile threatening to rise from his throat and the panging ache in his chest, Louis
presses further.
“I hate your handwriting,” he criticizes, trying to keep his voice level and firm, standing over
Harry’s shoulder and watching his work. “I can barely read it. Do you have to write it like that?
Like you’re begging to be noticed?”
Harry’s hand immediately stills.
Fuck.
Louis grips the insides of his pockets to calm his own discomfort, feeling like an utter piece of shit.
He walks away then, unable to look at Harry any longer because he cannot fucking keep doing
this, can’t watch Harry’s reaction; because no matter how horrible he was yesterday, or how much
this could, in the long run, potentially help, Louis can feel himself fracturing, unable to be this
purposefully cruel.
And fuck, no, this tough love is definitely not Louis’ new thing. He doesn’t care if this is
beneficial in some sick and twisted way; Louis fucking hates this. He’s not Harry. He can’t just
dish out cruelty.
The minutes pass by, only interrupted by the scratch of a pen against paper, and the songs of the
birds outside that drift through Harry’s cracked windows. The sun is warm and golden, lighting
the burnt leaves of the autumn trees outside, and everything seems fiery and alight as Louis gazes
out the window. The world on fire, burning. Much like his insides, which twist and coil and burn.
With guilt. And panic. And anxiety.
And just what the fuck is he doing and why? And where are the other boys when he needs
them??
At long last, the pen’s scratches stop, and Harry brandishes the finished product at Louis, eyes