Young & Beautiful

Harry shrugs. “I asked, so.” He shrugs again.
“Well, yeah, but. I never talk about that sort of thing. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever talked about
my mum before—not really.”
At that, Harry’s eyes lift to his. “You haven’t?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Louis shrugs. “I don’t care to. Can’t see the point in it.”
Harry’s looking at him, curious, guarded, imploring. Everything at once. “So then why did you
tonight?”
“Because you asked,” he says simply.
And Harry’s eyes flicker.
But Louis doesn’t want to push it, doesn’t want to scare Harry away with too many words, too
many secrets, so instead he motions towards the door. “I should go.”
“Yeah.”
He walks out of Harry’s room and to the door, limbs simultaneously heavy and light, each step
slow. It’s only when the wood creaks behind him does he realize that Harry’s following him,
actually walking him out.
Which…okay. This is new.
“Well, Curly” he says, turning around as his hand finds the doorknob. “Have a good night. Don’t
hurt yourself over that song. You’ve got it in the bag. And remember—I don’t lie.” He smiles for
good measure, feeling strange and sort of emotionally exhausted.
Harry nods distractedly, his phone having just buzzed in his pocket, and he reads the screen with
concentrated eyes, the glow washing over his features.
Louis takes this as a good sign to exit.
“’Night, Curly,” he says, opening the door and stepping outside. The cool air hits him in tidal
waves, freeing him of the heat and the awkwardness and the mountains of thoughts, and he’s just
closing the door behind him when suddenly an unnamed force prevents him from doing so.
He turns around—Harry. His large hand is splayed on the wood, bracing it, and he’s staring at
Louis with eyes that faintly spark, his hair an absolute mess, his lips pulled into a faint frown. But
as he stares at Louis, the frown fades, a softer calm overcoming his features, until he’s just staring
at Louis, expressionless and honest.
“Thank you, Louis,” he says after a moment's silence, and his voice is deep and a little raspy,
drifting over the words in soft lilts and tumbles.
And. Whoah.
Louis doesn’t think he’s ever heard Harry say his name before, not like that, not without
indifference or accompanied by his surname, and whoah.