Young & Beautiful

Harry, he’ll know that he’s said it, said that he cares in his own roundabout way.
He’s so lost in his newfound feelings of accomplishment and self-satisfaction, that it takes a
moment to register Harry’s silent movements.
He’s taking off his watch.
Just like that.
His head is bowed, carefully sliding the leather out of the buckle before he finally pulls it free from
his wrist—which looks so petite and naked without the weight of the clunky diamonds and the
heavy scent of wealth.
And there, written in boldface and capital letters, are the words ‘I CAN’T CHANGE’. It’s not
nearly as incriminating as Louis was lead to believe.
He glances up at Harry whose face is neutral as he stares at the words, barely angled in Louis’
direction.
“I’m trying to decide if that’s a hopeful message or not,” Louis muses at last.
“Me too.”
The words sink into Louis’ skin. They sit there for awhile, Louis trying to decipher the meaning,
trying to understand, trying to bear the inexplicable weight, all the while as Harry stares, quiet and
almost peaceful, never moving a muscle.
“Don’t hide it,” Louis says at last, feeling at odds with the situation, but he means his words, says
them with feeling.
“I have to. My—“ Harry stops abruptly, short and unexpected, before he seems to think better of it
and suddenly continues, words careful. “My father doesn’t like it.”
Louis feels a flash bolt through his veins, feels the need to counter whatever it is that is being
hinted at.
“I like it.”
At that, Harry looks up, eyes saturated in a powerful emotion that is still too alien to be defined.
An emotion that Louis can see Harry physically trying to suppress away, keep at bay—but can’t.
“Thank you,” he says earnestly, but his voice is petal soft and seems to echo and fade—much like
the chords of the piano that still feel as if they’re lingering in the smallest particles of the air. And
though there’s no smile, no laugh, no pleasant banter, it somehow feels like the softest moment
that Louis has ever shared with Harry, and it leaves his innards pooled with honey and warmth,
filling the hollowed spaces of his ribcage and the cracks in his barely mended bones.
“You’re welcome, Curly,” he smiles.
They stay that way for a few more moments, sitting quietly on the bench together, Louis’ bag
untouched, Harry’s wrist resting on his lap.
Then, silently, Louis plucks a pen from his pocket. Because this tattoo is important to Harry, very
important somehow, and Louis can feel Harry wishing it wasn’t. Which isn’t right, isn’t right at
all. And though he knows nothing about the workings at hand, has no basis to assemble any sort
of conclusion, the moment feels too personal, too significant to ignore. So, wordlessly, he draws