Young & Beautiful

“Something like that.” He brushes his hands off on his trousers, and just like that, he’s back to his
stoic poetry. “You can be found, if you like. But I don’t want to be.”
Louis falls silent, staring at him, and he doesn’t really know what to say. The issues at hand feel
too big, too important for Louis to even begin to tackle in this state, especially while he’s dressed
in sequins and sweating sparkles.
They continue to walk until they reach the roses. And then, without transition, Harry flops onto
the ground, stretches out, and lies splayed amongst the dying grass and fallen leaves, the faded
roses clustered near his head.
“Just lying in the garden, are we?” Louis asks, and stumbles as he makes to lie beside Harry, a
safe distance away.
“Don’t talk,” Harry says quietly, and his eyes are glued above him, glassy, quiet, and sad.
Louis obeys.
They lie there in silence, their quiet breaths mingling with the breeze, and it’s really fucking cold,
but Louis’ cheeks still feel warm from the alcohol, so he doesn’t complain, just listens to Harry
breathing and sneaks glances at his unmoving profile, shrouded in muted light and prism-less
shadows.
And then Louis talks.
“I can’t see any stars. Can’t even see the moon,” he mumbles, and maybe the roses are blocking
his view.
“’Put out the torches. Hide the moon. Hide the stars,’” Harry breathes and Louis closes his eyes at
his whispered voice.
“I like that,” he says quietly, and he thinks he may be beginning to feel his drunkenness slowly
begin to slip away.
Harry doesn’t respond. The cat ears are still on his head, tangled in his unruly curls, and his
cheekbones look sharp and hollow. He looks like Halloween.
“You should go back,” Harry’s voice suddenly says, and its softness splits the air.
But Louis doesn’t move.
And Harry doesn’t say it again.
He feels like Harry’s right, feels like he actually really should just leave right now, but can’t, his
limbs heavy and his adrenaline and excitement finally ebbing away and only leaving room for
exhaustion.
Louis’ eyelids begin to droop, his head nestled in dead leaves and wilted flower petals, and the air
is cool, smooth, cozy. And the alcohol drags his limbs and lulls his brain, and he thinks maybe he
can hear Harry’s heartbeat, thudding in time to Louis’ own.
He remains that way for awhile, his eyelids drooping lazily as his body prepares for sleep, and
they lie for minutes, maybe hours? It must be a long time because the sun is now beginning to
peak above the horizon, catching on the remnants of glitter that still stick to their skin.
Louis’ about to fall asleep, he is, but before he does, he feels his own lingering, drunken smile