Young & Beautiful

quotations on his own wrist, on the opposite arm, on the underside.
“There,” he says, feeling Harry’s eyes on him. “Ditto marks. Now neither of us can change.” He
half smiles before daring a look at Harry. His face is impossible to read.
The silence that follows is long and stretched out, Harry never moving and Louis sitting there,
beginning to wonder if his actions should’ve been a bit more thought out. Was that insensitive?
Intrusive? Too much?
But then, finally, Harry relents into a small smile, observing Louis’ wrist quietly, before almost
shyly bringing his own wrist to lay beside Louis’, their marks side by side, Louis’ hand palm up,
Harry’s palm down. Almost, Louis thinks, as if itching to be clasped together.
Which is an odd thought for this time of day.
“Well, don’t we make quite the pair,” Louis smiles all the same, ignoring his thoughts.
“We can’t change,” Harry muses in a mumble, repeating Louis’ earlier sentiment.
Louis’ chest hammers a bit as they sit there, the wind outside rattling the windows.
“Don’t wear your watch tonight,” he finally says, and he feels Harry look over to him, his own
eyes still glued to their wrists, side by side. “There’s simply no reason to hide your tattoo—you’ve
had it permanently inked into your body, after all.”
He then meets Harry’s gaze, his eyes large and distinctly wreaking of ‘puppy.’ “I don’t want to
have to explain it though. Like, if people ask.”
“You don’t have to do anything.”
He looks back down. “They’ll find a way to force it out of me, I know it,” he mumbles, brows
scowling.
A flare shoots through Louis. “I won’t ever let anybody force you to do anything.”
Harry looks up.
Louis meets his gaze.
And it feels significant. Somehow. Maybe, sort of, like a promise.
**
The rest of the day is, to put it simply, wonderful.
Harry makes them tea and sandwiches, Harry teaches Louis how to play simple songs on the
piano, Harry plays the violin so he can show off, and Harry listens to Louis’ over exaggerated
stories that are more laughable than engaging. They spend all day together, all day, and not once
are Louis’ books touched or opened. Instead, Louis enjoys every fucking moment, every second,
and absorbs Harry’s dripping words and occasional clearings of his throat and his raspy chuckles
and abrupt laughs and the way he sometimes tangles his long fingers in his hair and how he picks
at his teeth after he eats for far longer than necessary—which should be disgusting but is somehow
precious and real, causing Louis to stare fondly at the spectacle on the brief occasions where it
doesn’t count.
And now they’re sat in Harry’s living room, splayed on his fine, ornamental chairs, having a very