Young & Beautiful

never lifting from their downward trajectory.
Louis grabs the paper, feeling the brittle composure of his face, still unable to bring himself to look
at Harry just yet and instead searching the document before him.
He stares. His heart constricts.
“You. You rewrote it,” he says, surprised, but his brow furrows and he looks to Harry for the
conformation. “You rewrote the whole thing. Different.”
“You said you didn’t like my handwriting,” he says quietly, eyes still down, his lashes thick and
clustered over his pale skin. And he almost looks on the verge of frustrated tears, his whole
demeanor screaming rejection and insecurity, and it’s then that Louis sees just how wrong this
tactic was. It’s not helping at all, not in any way, this fucking shambles of an experiment at
behavior. Because Harry’s sensitive, moreso than Louis realized, and he sees it in the bow of his
head and the slouch of his shoulders, and the way his body seems to almost fold in on itself as he
sits and waits to be criticized further.
And, fuck, Louis swallows. It really just seems as though…Harry’s used to this. Harry’s
accustomed to being judged and mistreated. That he’s so in the groove of being subservient to
those who take advantage of their power over him, that he immediately folds up without a fight,
waiting to be taken advantage of even further and fuck, Louis is going to be sick.
“I-“ he begins, but words don’t come out as he clutches his paper.
Harry looks up at it, flicks his eyes over the words, and says in a dead voice, still not meeting
Louis’ line of sight,, “Is it not good enough?”
And Louis really, really might be sick now.
“It’s—“ Louis begins, but he literally cannot speak, staring at Harry as Harry stares at the paper.
Moments pass, ones where their sights remain the same, before Harry eventually stands, still
without meeting Louis’ eyes, and turns his back to him, trudging slowly to his room, hands limp.
“You can see yourself out. We’re done for the day.” The words are quiet. And then he slips inside
his room and shuts the door.
And no. Nope. Fuck no, Louis cannot leave like this.
So Louis stands, paper in hand, in the exact same spot for what could’ve been seconds, minutes,
hours, or years.
Harry must’ve picked up on the fact that the sound of the door never came, because afore too
long, his bedroom door creaks hesitantly and he’s peering out, eyebrows furrowed and eyes
weary, lips set in a small, tentative frown that truly breaks Louis’ heart in ways he absolutely
doesn't understand.
“Why are you still here?” he asks, and it’s almost fearful.
Louis stares at him. “I just. I’m…I’m looking at your curtains,” he bumbles, staring helplessly at
the boy before him, his insides on the verge of leaking all over the floor.
“My…curtains?”
“Yes. Yeah. Yeah, your curtains. They’re a bit too long. And, see, I can touch ‘em up a bit if you