Young & Beautiful

How hadn’t he realized it was there?
Physically, Louis feels like complete shit right now—hungover and frozen and damp and thirsty.
But he sees Harry’s words and, quote be damned, they strike true, too true, and Louis’ barely
awoken heart pangs in frustration.
Because they hit home, so, so much.
He hears their conversation from the previous night, echoed in his brain.
Do they mean anything? Or they just selected at random, then?
Yes. I’ve chosen them specifically.
And shit.
He knows he can’t stitch every wound. He knows that, no matter what, Harry is going to be
damaged and troubled and dealing with goldmines of unseen shit in his life.
And yet.
He promised Zayn he’d be there for Harry.
Hell, he basically already promised himself that he’d look after Harry far before his talk with
Zayn.
And it’s the little shit like this—the quiet, little shit that gets brushed aside because it seems
unessential or frivolous—that Louis can’t ignore, not when he’s fully capable of not ignoring it,
and it sits unpleasantly in his stomach.
Or maybe that’s just his hangover, who knows.
In any case, instead of seeking the sanctuary of his flat, Louis makes a decision. He tears a bit of
paper off of one of the bulletin boards in the halls, Googles “Dorian Gray quotes” on his phone,
and scrolls his too-bright screen until he finds the perfect one—literally perfect.
“Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.”
And if that doesn’t scream Harry, then he doesn’t know what does.
Automatically he grabs a pen off of the closed shop counter, scribbles down the sentence in his
most legible script, and without wasting another moment, sets off in the direction of Harry’s
rooms, ignoring his urge to wee and the headache that pounds in time with his footsteps.
His travel time is good though, he makes it their fairly swiftly considering his sore back, and he
slides the bit of paper under Harry’s door, hoping it won’t get lost or trampled into oblivion.
Mission accomplished (and bed calling his name), Louis once again sets out towards his flat,
feeling good about himself and the situation at hand.
Because at least he did something. And it was something selfless. And, who knows, it might even
strike Harry in some way.
It’s only after he’s safely entered his flat, tiptoed past a passed out Niall on the couch (his body
sprawled and drooling, empty sweets wrappers littering his naked stomach), and locked himself in
the warm solitude of his room, that his other hand slides into his other pocket, and another