Young & Beautiful

of smile that struggles to surface, but the walls of Harry’s face haven’t learned to let it through yet.
Louis marvels when it happens, because he likes to think it grows stronger every day, though
that’s probably not the case. Still though, Harry alights when he speaks of such things, stuffing the
details into his sentences, and his quiet, dopey enthusiasm that seeps through his calm exterior has
Louis feeling triple the enthusiasm he would normally feel, hanging onto Harry’s every word and
phrase, every blink and slide of fingertips against brittle book pages. It’s a passion of his, Louis
surmises, so it’s quite convenient that he’s tutoring him in a Victorian course that he couldn’t care
less about himself.
So it works. And Louis is learning. He can tell by the way he doesn’t fall asleep as much in
lecture, or by the fact that the thought of doing his homework doesn’t traumatize him. It’s helping,
and he’s grateful, and sometimes when he leaves the lecture hall, he texts a boastful exclamation to
Harry.
Because, yes, Louis forced them to exchange numbers. And, no, Harry never texts him back.
Ever. As in, not once. Not even if Louis has a question.
So there’s that as well.
And it’s all this—the lack of warmth, the unresponsiveness, the lack of progression, Harry’s
seeming indifference to Louis’ general existence—that has Louis contemplating ditching today’s
tutoring altogether, helpful or not.
Because it’s been a shit day. He slept through his first course, got woken up by Niall’s fucking
piano and a text from his sister complaining about Mother Dearest (but Niall assured him that he’d
spoken to Jo since and he’s sorted her out, so…yeah…that happened) and he’s had a splitting
headache. Not to mention the fact that he spilled beans all over his pristine, white trousers, or the
fact that he tripped on one of Niall’s empty beer bottles that he likes to keep on the floor, or that
tomorrow’s Halloween and Zayn’s throwing the party of the century and he really, really wants to
be rested and energized for such antics and also, hopefully, be in a somewhatly pleasant mood.
Which, at this point, seems less than likely.
And now his phone’s dead, he’s hungry and had forgotten his wallet this morning before he left,
and he’s supposed to be at Harry’s in ten minutes so he can sit and be talked at by a poisonous
mouth and guarded eyes and fuck all of that.
Fuck it.
Louis is going back to his flat.
So he just keeps walking.
**
“Aren’t you supposed to be at Harry’s?” Niall asks mildly, strumming his guitar on the couch.
Rory’s in the kitchen, cooking up something that smells delicious. And fuck, are those chocolate
biscuits?
“Hungry. Hate the world. Don’t give no fucks,” he manages, stuffing biscuits in his mouth
without hesitation, and Rory raises his eyebrows, but Louis can’t quite care right now.
“Did you text him?”
Louis scoffs, crumbs falling from his open-because-it’s-so-stuffed-he-can’t-close-it mouth. “Like
he’d even read it,” he says almost unintelligibly, sending sprays of biscuit bits at Rory who winces
and looks on at the spectacle with severe distaste.