Young & Beautiful

now!”
And Harry’s about to respond, still half-doubled over and now swatting at Louis, who jumps
away in delight, when suddenly music bursts through the speakers, and Zayn and Liam rush up to
them.
“That was so romantic! Did you see us?? Did you take photos? Or a video, did you take a video?”
Liam demands as Zayn goes to Harry’s side, asking him what’s wrong, which Louis can only
laugh at.
“I’m sorry, Li, I didn’t. But it doesn’t matter because we have our memories. Now, let’s do shots
and dance until we’re dead!” Louis sings, shooting his arms upward in a frenzy of glitter and
strobe lights, and the boys cheer, Niall rejoining them, butterfly in tow, and Harry shakes his head
but follows them all the same, finally able to stand.
**
The rest of the night is brightly colored and dark at the same time, tastes like pumpkin vodka,
smells like new car and cologne, and feels like hot summer nights.
Louis bounces around to every song that blasts over the stereo, throwing glitter into Niall’s drinks
whenever he’s not looking (and Harry actually fucking laughs about it at one point, but he’s drunk
so Louis isn’t sure if that counts) and takes endless pictures of himself because, well, he looks
spectacular.
At one point Louis catches onto the fact that Harry keeps whipping out a quill pen, scribbling onto
bits of napkin and paper and sliding them stealthily into others’ pockets. He slides one into Zayn’s
tailored trousers while he’s busy chatting to a group of foaming girls, and Louis almost says
something, but doesn’t, just as a familiar beat begins to spread over the hall.
The most ridiculous song in the world plays and, though in the sober light of day Louis would
stick his nose up at such tunes, drunk, nighttime Louis shout-sings, “She’s up all night ‘till the
sun, I’m up all night to get some, she’s up all for good fun, I’m up all night to get lucky!” while
dancing on Niall, fists pumping into the air.
They sing along, the five lads—even Harry who is surprisingly harpie-less, flourishing his hands
up in the air like a princess and giggling incessantly—and dance in a circle that consists of nobody
else in the world, laughing as they screech the lyrics.
“We’re up all night to get lucky! We’re up all night to get lucky!”
They’re bouncing into each other, they’re laughing, it’s loud, and they’re drunk as they sing, sing,
sing.
“We’re up all night to get lucky! We’re up all night to get lucky! We’re up all night to get lucky!
We’re up all night…”
And it’s ridiculous, and fun, and loud, and exhausting, and probably embarrassing but they just
can’t give a fuck, Niall gyrating in his milk carton, Liam pretending to have a peg leg, Zayn
(having finally snuck his gun back from Niall who had been holding it hostage, running around
and pretending to shoot people) thrusting his gun into the air rhythmically, drunk as the time he
vomited on Louis’ slippers.
It’s good. Really good.
Harry even stays with them, ignoring the hoards of cling-ons that press sweat sheened mouths