Young & Beautiful

form.
The air is still.
A lone bird chirps faintly in the distance.
Harry’s breathing, calmly and quietly.
“We’re up all night till the sun,” Louis sings, chuckling to himself, the words slurred and forcing
themselves through Louis’ slack lips, but he continues, eyes shutting, his drunken haze humming
pleasantly enough to assure him that this is a good idea. Because the lyrics fit the moment, they fit,
and yes, he definitely feels like the cleverest knife in the block.
And as Louis sings, “We’re up all night to get some,” he thinks he hears a faint, baritone voice
singing quietly along.
“We’re up all night for good fun. We’re up all night to get lucky.”
Harry’s voice, low and raspy, slides against Louis’, light and tinkling, and it’s so, so ridiculous,
but such a perfect conclusion to their night, and, as Louis’ eyes drift shut for the last time, lyrics
still slipping through his lips, he feels his smile, accompanied by the first slivers of sunlight
ghosting across his skin.
**
He awakens as he expected he would—alone.
Harry’s nowhere in sight. But that’s probably for the best, because Louis feels vile and has more
distressing matters on his mind.
His clothes are damp, as is his skin, nestled in the dew drenched grass, and the sun is alarmingly
bright, burning his retinas and frying his very, very dry brain and throat.
And fuck shit ass.
Why was falling asleep outside a good idea?
He forces his creaky limbs off of the ground, bones clicking, and swipes a hand over his sleepcreased
face as he begins to stumble toward the direction of his flat, bucket still in tow, speckles of
glitter wet and sticking to the sides of it.
Feeling impossibly cold—is he dying? He might be—Louis sticks his free hand deep in his
pocket, hoping to sponge at least some warmth—
And what?
He stops, feeling his fingers brush against a small slip of paper. Curious and confused, he extracts
the bit, unfolding its creases and immediately recognizing the handwriting.
“I knew nothing but shadows and I thought them to be real.”
Louis stares at the words, tiny and hastily scrawled. They rest in his palm, lying quietly and
unassumingly.
Harry. Dorian Gray. The quotes.
How had he not felt him slip this in his pocket at the party?