Young & Beautiful

But now, as Louis is entering Harry’s rooms (because that’s one thing that’s changed—Harry
keeps his door unlocked, leaving Louis free entry to his place and, on the good days, he’ll even
have a cup of tea prepared and waiting for him), freshly invigorated from his successful exam, his
thoughts are only pleasant, his only distress being that he sort of wishes he really did pick up a
bushel of lilies for Harry as a thank you.
The main room is empty, Louis notes upon entering.
And, oh, it’s actually a very good thing he didn’t get those lilies because something else is
scattering every single centimeter of the floor—paper. Stacks and piles and clusters of papers.
Sheet music actually, at the looks of it. Handwritten and scribbled and elegant.
Okay then.
And Harry is nowhere in sight.
“Curly?” he calls tentatively, checking his phone just in case (though, why, he doesn’t know—
he’d sooner get a text from Zeus than he would Harry), and begins walking through the flat,
peering into the empty rooms.
There’s nothing, just the typical cat figurines and the ancient record players and the books and
flowers and—huh.
There, on a small, intricate wooden table by a window is a picture of Des, Harry, and a thin,
impeccable, wasting away girl with wide eyes and beautiful hair that could only be his sister. It’s
black and white—of course it is, because Harry’s probably had it specially edited, the artful git—
and it’s from some sort of banquet or awards show or premier or who knows whathefuck, given
their world. But they are all dressed immaculately, and they’re clustered together closely enough
to resemble a family.
It looks rather recent, Harry’s face only a touch more childlike, but it’s his face. Louis stares at his
face. Because he’s smiling. Smiling. Actual smiling. And it’s wide and sunny and it fills the
smooth planes of his face and he looks like he fucking sparkles with those warm eyes and that
shadowed dimple and it sort of fucking twists Louis’ stomach because it only gives further
contrast to the Harry that he knows. The empty, stark one that is worlds away from this genuine
being that emanates warmth. And he doesn’t know if it was because Harry was better back then or
if it’s because he’s with his family here, but it sticks to Louis’ ribs and the only reason he can look
away is because Des.
Des. With his crinkled eyes and shadows and hair in disarray and slack jaw. With one hand
flashing a thumbs up, the other in his pocket. Not, say, embracing his children. No. Just his hands
to himself, lightly acknowledging the camera with a manic grin and black eyes that bear enough
history in the outlines for Louis to just know.
And Louis could really stare at this all day, this picture that’s worth endless words, but then—a
piano sounds.
Ah yes. The piano.
Wordlessly, he heads in the direction of Harry’s bedroom, leaving the photograph behind without
a second glance. The piano grows louder, soft, plonking keys that pepper the air, one at a time.
Upon reaching the door, he nudges it open softly, and there he is. Sitting on the edge of the stool,
one hand mindlessly tapping keys, the other buried in his endless ribbons of tangled hair, his eyes
staring unseeingly out of the window.