Young & Beautiful

Harry smirks but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’ll be a nice change.”
“I suppose.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “You suppose? Of course it’ll be—everybody already thinks I’ve gotten
boring.”
“Good,” Louis says, voice strong. “Let them.” At Harry’s questioning gaze, he continues. “If
there are people who genuinely believe you to be boring—you, who collect cat figurines and hold
picnics in the dead of winter—then they certainly aren’t the kind of people that deserve to be
around you.”
“What do you—“
“They look at you like you’re a piece of paper, Harry,” Louis continues, turning to fully face
Harry whose eyes are pinched, contracted and confused. “Like, you’re just that. One flat surface,
taken at face value, and that’s it. Like there’s nothing more to you than just whatever’s presented,
right? Just fun, like. Enjoyed and, and—“—he pauses, not wanting to say ‘passed on and
forgotten’ though the words sting his tongue, itch his thoughts—“and you’re not like that. You’re
more like…a novel. You’ve got the cover, yeah, and it’s fun or whatever, but then, like, there’s so
much more to it, isn’t there? There’s these incredible quotes and memorable passages and so much
happens, so, so much, and there’s just…a lot, you know? It’s something, it matters, and there’s—
there’s substance there. You know?” he finishes, and he knows he’s rambling, blathering on, but
the sentiment is there. He ends with his arms falling to his sides, staring at Harry.
That really wasn’t as smooth as he’d intended it to be.
But, despite Louis’ lack of eloquence, the sentiment seems to have reached Harry, who is now
staring at Louis with a sort of strangled, pleased expression, his lips itching to grin and his eyes
fighting between a confused scowl and a smile.
“You’re starting to sound like me,” he says through his pressed lips, hand still on the door, Louis
still framed in the space between Harry’s rooms and outside.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Louis grins in response.
Both smiles widen while the icy winds lick their way inside, the distant waves of chatter wafting
in their wake.
“So if I’m a novel,” Harry says, and his smile might have grown even wider which makes Louis’
feet feel jittery, “then what are you? A children’s book?”
Louis laughs. It blends with the sun. “Probably a fairytale, to be exact.” He smiles sincerely,
stuffing his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, absentmindedly rubbing his chin along the
warmth of the scarf wrapped tightly around his neck.
“Which one, then? Peter Pan?” He says it with more fondness than mockery, and that alone sends
Louis into spirals of warmth and flattery.
He might never get over Harry being kind. Which is just fine.
“Probably, yeah,” Louis laughs again, his voice sounding gentler than it probably ever has, and he
tilts his head as he observes Harry, his flimsy jumper ruffling in the icy breezes. “Forever young.”
He smiles. “And immature.”