Young & Beautiful

Silence dragged on, Harry still rummaging in his drawers with that quiet displeasure written in his
features, and Louis watched him, noting the shadows and wondering their cause. He wanted to
ask, GOD, he wanted to ask what they were from, but he didn’t, knowing it would probably only
serve to distance him further from Harry, and so he merely watched, biting back the question that
always pressed against his brain and tongue every time he’s alone with Harry: ‘Have you found
Des yet?’
He’s not even sure if that’s the right question. But, regardless, he didn’t ask it then and he still
hasn’t since.
So, instead, he stretched out his limbs after the silence felt too long, yawning exaggeratedly loud
in hopes to catch Harry’s eye.
Which, nope.
Irked, Louis stood up, walking over to stand before Harry’s desk, knuckles thumping against the
wood.
Almost immediately, Harry’s eyes, which were studying some bit of paper, his head bent, shot
toward the source of noise, before shooting even further up to meet Louis’ eyes.
Irate. That would probably be the appropriate description of Harry’s stare.
Louis smirked. “I’m ready for my incredibly insightful, helpful-beyond-belief lesson, Curly
McCurlyfish.” Harry’s eyes rolled. “Mould me! Transform me into a new and better machine of
wisdom!”
With a light shake of the head, Harry returned to his seemingly pointless duty of paper shuffling.
“I’m not really one for impossible tasks,” he muttered, shoulders dainty and slouched, a curl
catching in his eyelashes.
“But the impossible ones are the funnest ones,” Louis countered, tapping the wood of the desk
incessantly, his impatience and annoyance beginning to ripple.
Harry paused, observing him, before he finally shrugged. “I’ll see what I can do,” he replied
simply, then motioned for Louis to sit, and proceeded with the tutoring.
And that’s how it went.
That’s how it’s been going since. Louis being playful and charming and endearing (yes, all of
those things) as he examines Harry’s belongings, stares out of Harry’s windows, asks every
question that comes to mind, begs for tea (and that’s one thing that’s different—Harry now knows
exactly how Louis likes his tea, which is something Louis takes very seriously), all the while as
Harry tolerates, judges, and teaches in his slow, cascading voice that tastes like chocolate and feels
like suede, sitting in his desk chair and sipping champagne, adjusting his Chanel watch, mussing
his hair, checking his phone, and getting lost in his own thoughts.
But he teaches Louis—he really does. His slowness allows Louis to keep up, his indifference
leaves room for Louis to try harder, and sometimes, when he’s quoting some novel or poet or
author or whateverthefuck, the tragically beautiful words match the tragically beautiful prisms in
Harry’s eyes, and the words echo in Louis’ brain, staying with him for the rest of the day, through
sleep, and into the next lecture where he’s asked to write them down from memory.
Sometimes the left side of Harry’s mouth will twist when he’s talking about things he cares about
—say, Oscar Wilde, who he speaks of religiously, adoringly, reverently, endlessly--and sweet
mother of god, Louis means endlessly--or Victorian culture, and Louis thinks it may be some sort