Young & Beautiful

down at his own outfit—maroon skinny jeans, white Converse, and a gray zip-up hoodie that’s
not exactly made of the thickest of materials—and not only feels under-dressed, but inadequately
suited for the weather. “I’m going to die of hypothermia,” he deadpans, eyes narrowed at Harry.
“That’s why you have to drink tea,” Harry explains as if that’s an explanation at all, and Louis just
gives him a look as the boy begins to fuss around Zayn’s rooms and…actually begins to make a
pot of tea.
Louis massages his temples.
What even is his life?
**
They’re outside, it’s spitting freezing rain (or, as Niall likes to inexplicably call it—“Ice Giant
wee”) and the only fucking reason Louis is participating in this shambles is because it makes
Harry’s face light up like a Christmas tree which is something Louis’ never seen before, and it sort
of helps to chase the chill away in a very small, silent, selfless way. Because fuck, if Harry’s
finally back and his dad’s returned, and he’s seemingly happy and in good spirits and wants to
have a goddamn picnic in the dead of winter, then…fuck. There really isn’t much else to say, is
there.
At least Liam’s brought the football. Much to Harry’s horror.
“It’s supposed to be a picnic,” he insists with a whine, standing in his red suit, teacup in his hand,
as the icy wind tumbles his curls and paints his features in soft pink glows.
But everybody ignores him, instead splitting into two teams—Zayn and Liam VS. Louis, Niall,
and Harry—and begins kicking the ball expertly back and forth.
They play for the better part of an hour, running around in the cold, gray air that leaves their
jumpers wet and their shoes muddy. It’s invigorating, urging frozen limbs into life, and Louis finds
himself almost appreciating Harry having ushered them outside in the wintry chill. With pale skin
and flushed, blotchy cheeks, their gasped, laughing breath creates soft plumes in the frigid air,
filling the silence of the courtyard and making everything brighter as they slap hands and bums,
offering praises and taunts with each play. It’s a good game: Liam is brilliant as always—“I’m on
the team, you know.”—and Zayn is unsurprisingly skilled, as is Niall, and of course Louis is
certainly no stranger to the sport. But Harry…well.
Harry attempts to kick the ball once, and the one time he does, he goes flying to the ground, his
foot never coming close to the ball. Not even close.
“Shit,” he hisses from the icy grass, inspecting his palms and dirtied suit. Of course he insisted on
keeping his suit on for the ‘picnic.’ Of course.
“Better luck next time, Styles!” Niall shouts jovially, jogging to the other side of the lawn, Zayn
and Liam on either side.
Louis’ about to follow, but there’s something very endearingly pathetic about Harry’s crumpled
figure on the ground, his pigeon toes quirked at odd angles, grass and mud stains streaking almost
every inch of his once pristine suit. There’s a pout on his face, silent and upset, and Louis sighs as
the boy struggles to gain his footing.
“Here, Curly. Before you hurt yourself” he says, offering his hand, unable to shield away his
smile.