Young & Beautiful

instrument.
“I’ve actually managed to remember something!” Louis exclaims excitedly, grinning at Harry in
his sunny, crinkly way, and Harry’s grin stretches wider than it ever has before as he watches
Louis’ hands on the piano.
“You’re not completely terrible,” he admonishes, but it’s said with that smile, so Louis can’t do
much more than laugh and swat at Harry’s hands, which play besides his own.
Once again his eyes catch sight of the ink peeking out from beneath Harry’s watch—as they have
throughout the whole piano lesson—and Louis’ curiosity stirs at the ineligible writing. Because
why does he even have a tattoo there if he always wears a watch there? What does it say? Why is
it covered?
These are things Louis had never before realized he needed to know.
They play a few more broken rounds of strung together lullabies before Louis finally gives into
temptation and inquisitively taps his forefinger on the encrusted diamonds of Harry’s Chanel
watch.
“So what’s this tattoo, then?” he asks bluntly, looking over to Harry, tucking his chin into his own
shoulder, watching the boy’s reaction.
Which, of course, is that of a deer in headlights.
“Nothing,” Harry says immediately, retracting his hand, his face composing into silent stone as the
piano quiets, the chords echoing into a faded peace.
Louis tilts his head, curious and inquiring, studying Harry’s profile as the boy in question looks
down at the piano keys, the lines of exhaustion that are etched in his face somehow becoming
more exaggerated.
“It’s all right, you know. I won’t judge you, or anything,” Louis says simply, swinging his legs.
The faintest smirk shows on Harry. “You judge everything about me,” he mumbles wryly.
“Only the things that deserve to be judged,” Louis replies unabashedly. “But, contrary to popular
belief, I wouldn’t, like, hurt your feelings on purpose or anything. I’m not a mean person.”
Harry slides his fingers against the keys, head bent, curls tumbling down.
“I know that,” he finally says, quietly.
It lifts Louis’ heart in one swift motion. His smile probably grows, but he really can’t feel it, not
when his head’s swimming in that odd way, so he just nudges Harry’s shoulder with his own,
trying to catch his eye.
“Look, I don’t mean to pry. And you should never feel like you ever have to tell me anything.
Even if I do want to know. And it drives me up a wall. Drives me up all the walls.” He smiles at
Harry’s chuckle. “But, just for the record, you don’t have to, like, feel weird or whatever. Not
with me.”
It feels good saying it, Louis notes, saying the things that have just quietly sat in the fibers of his
skin and pathways of his brain—things that never shaped into their own words, just sat namelessly
within him. But now that he’s constructed them into sentences and released them into the air…
well. He feels accomplished somehow and it feels good. Right, even. Even if it means nothing to