Young & Beautiful

“That everything’s good,” he explains, motioning towards the strawberries.
Understanding blooms upon Harry’s features and he nods. “Me, too,” he says quietly, and the
shadow of a smile still haunts his face which only presses Louis’ lips into a bigger grin.
There’s a moment where Louis’ still holding the two strawberries, staring at Harry and feeling
strangely…uplifted? His feelings are rocketed upward, encompassing him in a way that is both
alien and familiar, and all he can do is stare at the boy before him, resplendent in vermilion and
resembling someone so very human and so very real, the facades broken down in so many ways,
it almost makes Louis want to reach out and touch him, just to assure himself that this is reality and
not the twisted makings of his own mind.
But before he can entertain such silly thoughts any further, Harry’s turning away, setting down the
bowl gently, his head bowing with the motion and his back facing Louis.
“But why?” he suddenly asks, and his creased brow is back. Which. Doesn’t frustrate Louis as
much as it makes his heart thump unsteadily, wearily.
“Why what?” he asks, genuinely confused.
“Why does that make you glad?”
And there it is. That quiet, questioning voice of Harry’s that always manages to shatter Louis’
bones.
He gapes, at a loss for the abrupt and genuine curiosity of the question, before he slides his hands
into his back pockets, rocking on his heels a bit, adopting the most nonchalance he can gather.
“Because. I really need a tutor.”
A short, small laugh escapes Harry again (Louis thinks the sun may have popped that time)
before he presses it back inside, a smile present on the lips that he casts downward, tucking into
his chest and shielding away from the world. Which really isn’t right. He shouldn’t be hiding his
smiles. He should be lifting his chin into the air and lighting the world with them.
“And. You know.” Louis pauses, dares to say the next words. “You’re a mate.”
There. He said it.
And, just like that, the mood is altered.
Harry turns, looks fully at Louis, eyebrows pinched once more.
“Louis…I don’t have ‘mates.’”
At that, Louis releases a puff of air, rocking harder on his heels as he shakes his head with enough
exaggeration to belittle his internal disappointment. “Well, I dunno, Curly. That’s going to be
pretty awkward to tell the lads.” He chances a glance at Harry who is looking down at the bowl of
strawberries, quiet and guarded, body half-turned away from Louis. He can feel it—can feel the
line they’re balancing on. He knows that one overeager move will send Harry scattering in the
opposite direction, shielding himself from Louis’ intrusions that are too much, too large, too
forceful for a boy who can barely grasp the concept that someone might just care about his
presence in the world. So Louis just smiles easily and finishes with a musical, “And, you know,
that’s not even mentioning how rude it is that you would say that when I’m standing right in front
of you, declaring myself as ‘mate.’”