Young & Beautiful

Harry seems caught by the subject, having paused his frantic, agitated actions of scouring through
his sheet music and instead now absentmindedly fumbling lightly with the corner of a random
page as he stares down at it. “How so?” he asks, and his voice is feigning nonchalance, but Louis
can feel the coiled tension beneath, the genuine curiosity and…something unidentifiable.
“Because—“ Louis stops. He never talks about his mum. Not really. He doesn’t see the point in it.
If anything, it causes him anger or makes him dwell on it more than is necessary, which does shit
all for anybody, so he doesn’t think about, doesn’t talk about it. Just deals with it, and it’s really as
simple as that. But Harry’s asking, and he thinks he may need to hear this answer, and Louis’ got
nothing to lose from it, so. So he continues. “Because after Charles left, she became a selfish mess
and I had to pick up the pieces. She was all right before then—a proper enough mum. She read
stories to my sisters and hugged us before we left the house and made us dinner and decorated the
house for every holiday. She asked us about our days and remembered our birthdays and signed
our permission slips when we needed them the next day for school. But Charles spoiled her,
probably too much, because she never seemed to pick up on the fact that he didn’t like me. She
was too focused on the presents and the holidays and the jewelry. So after he had an affair and
they divorced, she lost herself. Maybe she lost herself before then, I don’t know. I have five
younger sisters. The youngest is four. I basically raised them—she wouldn’t. She cries because
she wants attention, she picks at you if she’s feeling bad about herself, and she loves me, she does,
but she loves me most when it serves her best. She gives into her weaknesses and forgets about us,
completely fucking forgets about her six children. Then suddenly the next minute she’s practically
strangling us because she won’t fucking let go—just clings and suffocates us, peering over our
shoulders and sitting in our laps and crying all the goddamn time. Sometimes she leaves for days
at a time, just because she wants to find herself. I’ve no clue where she goes, nor do I care to
know. Sometimes she wants to find a boyfriend. Just because she’s bored and insecure.
Sometimes she flirts with me best mates for attention. Sometimes she screams at me in public
because I don’t give in to her. And sometimes she’s good, yeah, drives me to appointments or
takes care of me when I’m sick. She came down here to help me move. She misses me, too. But
thing is, I think she only misses me because I looked after her and took care of her. I don’t know.
That day you took me to your house? Yeah, she was in a proper strop, on her way here to drag me
home and make me leave school. All because she was having a bad day and decided to blame me
for Charles’ problems. Fuck, probably for her own problems! And I have to thank you again for
that because, even though you probably didn’t do it on purpose and were just bringing me along
for whatever other reason, that saved my life. I’m not good with her. Niall, Niall’s good with her.
But I’m not. I don’t feel bad for her. I don’t have the patience for her. I just…I’m just a bit bitter, I
suppose.” He sighs, and he feels drained, the words having erupted and forced themselves out of
his mouth. He didn’t plan on saying that much, not nearly, but it felt relieving in some odd way,
and Louis forces himself back to the present before taking a look at Harry.
His head is bowed, hands in his lap, and Louis isn’t even sure if he’s paying attention anymore—
“I did,” he suddenly says, quiet and low. “I did bring you with me on purpose that day.” He looks
up at Louis, features void, but eyes filled with swirling clouds—which is more life than Louis’
seen in them in weeks.
The room is so quiet that it’s loud, Louis and Harry staring at each other from across the room.
And fuck.
He knew it. But he can’t process it. So Louis just stares. Stares into swirling, overcast eyes that
have hooked painfully into his own, preventing him from blinking, breathing, thinking. Too much.
“I know what that’s like,” Harry mumbles, practically into Louis’ fucking soul, “To…to need to
escape. Just for a bit.”